ed to the
streets. "Then if you wish it--" To her the insult seemed to lie in
the proposed delay. She loved him, and she had no love for virtue. She
loved him, and if he had urged her to go with him on the instant she
would have yielded easily. But she must await his convenience; next
year, perhaps; and meanwhile she must go to Lucca, she must be married
to the other man.

She was crying, and tears oozed out between her fingers and dripped on
the floor. "He is horrible to me," she said brokenly.

Filippo rose then and came to her; he loved her in his way, and she
moved him as no woman had done yet.

"Why need you marry him? Do not. Wait for me here and I will surely
come for you," he said as he drew her to him.

She hid her face on his shoulder. "I dare not send him away," she
whispered. "All Siena would laugh at me, and I should be ashamed to be
seen. No other man would ever take me after such a scandal. Besides,
you know I must be married. You know that, Filippo! And if you did not
come--"

"I shall come."

She clung to him in silence for a while before she spoke again.

"Why not until January?"

"You will be good if I tell you?" he asked when he had kissed her.

"Yes, yes; only hold me."

"Gemma, you must know that I am poor. I have told you often how the
palace in Florence is shabby, eaten up with moth and rust. The Villa
at Certaldo is falling into ruins too. I am poor."

"You have an automobile, servants, horses; you stay here at the best
hotel."

"I should not be poor for a _contadino_ but I am for a prince," he
said impatiently and with emphasis. "Believe me, I want money, and I
must have it. I cannot steal it or earn it, or win it in the lottery
unfortunately, so I must marry it."

She cowered down as though he had struck her, and made an effort to
escape from him, but he held her fast. She tried to speak, but the
pain in her throat prevented her from uttering an articulate sound.

"Do not think of the woman," he said hurriedly. "You need not. I do
not. Once I am married I shall go my own way, of course, but her
father is in Naples now, and he is a tiresome old fool."

"_Santissimo Dio!_" she gasped presently. "When--when--"

"In December."

"Is she beautiful?"

He laughed as he gave the answer she hoped for. "She is an American,"
he added, "and it sets one's teeth on edge to hear her trying to talk
Italian. Her accent! She is a small dry thing like a grasshopper."

"I wish she was dea