"No, I want his advice regarding another matter, a matter which concerns myself." As he spoke he kept his eyes fixed upon her, and saw how handsome she was. In that loose gown of silk and plush, with its heavy girdle, she looked, indeed, the notorious Countess Funaro about whom he had heard so much scandalous gossip. Slowly she advanced towards him, her small white hands outstretched, her arms half bare, her beautiful face upturned to his. Those eyes were so blue and clear, and that face so perfect an incarnation of purity, that it was hard to believe that she was actually the notorious woman who had so scandalised Florentine society. He stood before her again, fascinated as he always had been in her presence in those bygone sunny days in Tuscany, when he had basked daily in her smiles and idled lazily beside the Mediterranean. "Nino," she said, in a soft crooning voice scarcely above a whisper--a voice which showed him she was deeply in earnest--"Nino, if it pleases you to break my heart then I will not complain. I know I deserve all the terrible punishment I am now enduring, for I've sinned before Heaven and have sinned against you, the man who loved me. You cast me aside as a worthless woman because of my evil reputation; you credit all the base libellous stories circulated by my enemies; you believe that I have toyed with your affection and have no real genuine love for you. Well, Nino," she sighed, "let it be so. I know that now you are aware of my identity you can never believe in my truth and honesty; but I tell you that I still love you, even though you may denounce and desert me." He turned from her with a gesture of impatience. "Tell me, Nino," she went on eagerly, following him and grasping his arm convulsively, "tell me the truth. Why are you here to-night?" He turned quickly upon her, and made a movement to free himself from her grasp. "Malvano is Italian," he answered. "I have come to consult him upon a matter in which only an Italian can assist me." "I am Italian," she said quickly. "Will you not let me render you at least one service, even if it be the last?" She looked earnestly into his face, and her soft arms wound themselves around his neck. "I have no faith in you," he answered. "I was a fool to enter here, but your voice brought back to me so many memories of those days that are dead, and I couldn't resist." "Then you still think of me sometimes, caro," she said, clinging to him. "Your love is not yet dead?" "It is dead," he declared, fiercely disengaging himself. "Gemma, whom I knew and loved in Livorno, will ever remain a sad sweet memory throughout my life; but the wealthy, wanton Contessa Funaro, the woman against whom every finger is pointed in Italy, I can never trust, I can never love." She fell back, crushed, humiliated, ashamed. A deathlike pallor overspread her face, and her eyes grew large, dark, and mournful. There are some griefs that are too deep, even for tears.