I remained with her for some time longer, trying in vain to induce her to reveal the truth. In her stubborn refusal I recognised her determination to conceal some fact concerning her father, yet whether she knew the real truth or not I was certainly unable to determine. The revelation that Ella was acquainted with Gordon-Wright alias the Lieutenant held her utterly confounded. She seemed to discern in it an increased peril for herself, and yet she would tell me nothing-- absolutely nothing. The situation was tantalising--nay maddening. I intended to save my well-beloved at all costs, yet how was I to do so? To denounce the adventurer would, she had herself declared, only bring ruin upon her. Therefore my hands were tied and the cowardly blackguard must triumph. The soft Italian twilight fell, and the street lamps along the broad promenade below were everywhere springing up, while to the right the high stone lighthouse, that beacon to the mariner in the Mediterranean, shot its long streams of white light far across the darkening sea. From one of the open-air _cafe-chantants_ in the vicinity came up the sound of light music and the trill of a female voice singing a French _chansonette_, for a rehearsal was in progress. And again a youth passing chanted gaily one of those _stornelli d'amore_ which is heard everywhere in fair Tuscany, in the olive groves, in the vineyards, in the streets, in the barracks, that ancient half dirge, half-plaintive song, the same that has been sung for ages and ages by the youths in love:-- Mazzo di fiori! Si vede il viso, e non si vede il core Tu se' un bel viso, ma non m'innamori. Lucie heard the words and smiled. The song just described my position at that moment. I saw her face but could not see her heart. She was beautiful, but not my love. And as the voice died away we heard the words:-- Fiume di Lete! Come la calamita mi tirate, E mi fate venir dove velete. Old Marietta, the Tuscan sewing-woman, entered and lit the gas. She looked askance at me, wondering why I remained there so long I expect. "It is growing late," I exclaimed in Italian; "I must go. It is your dinner-hour," and glancing round the room, carpetless, as all Italian rooms are in summer, I saw that it was cheaply furnished with that inartistic taste which told me at once that neither she nor her father had chosen it. It struck me that they had bought the furniture just as it had stood from some Italian, perhaps the previous occupier. Old Marietta was a pleasant, grey-faced old woman in cheap black who wore large gold rings in her ears and spoke with the pleasant accent of Siena, and who, I saw, was devoted to her young mistress. "This is Mr Leaf," she explained in Italian. "He is an English friend of my father's." Then turning to me she said, laughing, "Marietta always likes to know who's who. All Italians are so very inquisitive about the friends of their _padrone_."