A little later she came to him again. "I've been so anxious about your people--you see, we've had no means of communicating with them." "My people?" asked Paul, surprised. "Yes. They must be wondering what has become of you." "I have no people," said Paul. "No people? What do you mean?" she asked sharply, for the moment forgetful of the sick room. She herself had hundreds of relations. The branches of her family tree were common to half the country families of England. "Have you no parents--brothers or sisters--?" "None that I know of," said Paul. "I'm quite alone in the world." "Have you no friends to whom I could write about you?" He shook his head, and his great eyes, all the greater and more lustrous through illness, smiled into hers. "No. None that count. At least--there are two friends, but I've lost sight of them for years. No--there's nobody who would be in the least interested to know. Please don't trouble. I shall be all right." Miss Winwood put her cool hand on his forehead and bent over him. "You? You, alone like that? My poor boy!" She turned away. It was almost incredible. It was monstrously pathetic. The phenomenon baffled her. Tears came into her eyes. She had imagined him the darling of mother and sisters; the gay centre of troops of friends. And he was alone on the earth. Who was he? She turned again. "Will you tell me your name?" "Savelli. Paul Savelli." "I thought so. It was in the two books in your knapsack. A historical Italian name." "Yes," said Paul. "Noble. All dead." He lay back, exhausted. Suddenly a thought smote him. He beckoned. She approached. "My heart--is it safe?" he whispered. "Your heart?" "At the end of my watch-chain." "Quite safe." "Could I have it near me?" "Of course."