courteously. "You are honourable, I am sure; but are you
wise? And let me remind you that we want her with us at
home. Her little daughter will be motherless, our home will
be broken up. If you grant my request you will earn our
thanks--and you will not be without a reward for your
disappointment."

"Reward--what reward?" He bent over the back of a chair
and looked earnestly at Philip. They were coming to terms
pretty quickly. Poor Lilia!

Philip said slowly, "What about a thousand lire?"

His soul went forth into one exclamation, and then he
was silent, with gaping lips. Philip would have given
double: he had expected a bargain.

"You can have them tonight."

He found words, and said, "It is too late."

"But why?"

"Because--" His voice broke. Philip watched his face,--a
face without refinement perhaps, but not without
expression,--watched it quiver and re-form and dissolve from
emotion into emotion. There was avarice at one moment, and
insolence, and politeness, and stupidity, and cunning--and
let us hope that sometimes there was love. But gradually
one emotion dominated, the most unexpected of all; for his