He stared in speechless stupefaction at me as though I had revealed some incredible horror to his eyes. "Four children!" he whispered, with dilated eyes. "But who—but I thought you have never been married?" "I have not," I replied with an intense relief that was like a restorative. Then, catching his meaning glance, I went on hastily; "They are my sister’s orphans. I am responsible for them. They have no one else." "Ah!" he drew in his breath with the sound of a syphon. "That is it, is it?" "Yes," I murmured, rising, resolved to put an end to this ghastly episode. "Now, if you will excuse me—" All at once his hands shot out and clutched both of mine. "You’re not good man!" he shouted vehemently. "No—not only good—you’re a great man! _Caro mio_—ah, I never make mistake—no!" And before I knew what he was doing, he had embraced me in Continental fashion and large tears stood in his eyes. The cup of my torment was complete. A mad desire to get away possessed me—only to get away. I stirred to move but he held me resolutely. "We will think it out, my friend," he announced with sober energy. "We will talk it over—work it out. I, too, am a man with a heart, _caro mio_. It is I who understand—Have I not lost my poor Giovanna—Gina’s mother? If you two love each other—well—we must find—a way." Hope bounded in my pulses as I noted that his enthusiasm was now tempered by thoughtfulness. "No, Mr. Visconti," I murmured with painful firmness. "I have no right to love Miss Gina—and I wouldn’t dream of telling her so, even if I did—I am not free—" "You—you’re not _promesso_—what d’you call it—engaged?" "Oh, no, no! It is only my heart that is engaged—not my word—there is some one else—but it can never be anything—" "But what does it mean?" he flashed, dark anger purpling his features and kindling the air like a torch. "What did I see! My girl in your arms—what was that!" His eyes now darted fiery anger and his arms were arrested in the midst of a violent gesture. I shook my head slowly. His anger was infinitely more agreeable to me—like manna—after his parching enthusiasm. "There was nothing," I answered quietly. "Miss Gina really turned her ankle on the rug. And I caught her as she fell—just as you would have done." He stood panting for a moment, his gaze riveted upon me. At last he turned away, with a pitiful movement of regret, apology, resignation. The excellent man gave me the benefit of the doubt. "Ah, _Dio mio_," he muttered. "_Poverina_! Go, my friend, now. I must think. _Bellessa mia!—cara mia!_—what will I say to her? Ah, _Dio_! what a bitter world!" "I am more distressed than I can say," I murmured, with the crushed voice of poignant suffering, "but what can I do—or say—more?" "_Niente_—nothing, nothing," he muttered. "Good night!" and my admiration for his spirit was high when he held out his trembling hand.