at the shops and the passers-by, and talked about the theatre and the people in it or about old days in Naples.  There was no harm; and they thought no harm.  Sometimes he could hear her hum to herself a fragment of one of the old familiar canzoni—­“Antoniella Antonia!” or “Voca, voca ncas’ a mano”—­so light-hearted was she; and occasionally they said a word to each other in Neapolitanese—­but this was seldom, for Nina considered the practice to be most reprehensible.  What she had chiefly to take him to task for, however, was his incurable and inordinate extravagance—­wherever she was concerned especially.

“Leo, you think it is a compliment?” she said to him, earnestly.  “No, not at all?  I am sorry.  Why should you buy for me this, that, whatever strikes your eye, and no matter the price?  I have everything I desire.  Why to me?—­why, if you must give, why not to your cousin you tell me of, who is so kind to the sick children in boarding them in the country?  There, now, is something worthy, something good, something to be praised—­”

“Oh, preach away, Nina!” he answered, with a laugh.  “But I’ve contributed to Francie’s funds until she won’t take anything more from me—­not at present.  But why do you always talk about saving and saving?  You are an artist, Nina, and you put such value on money!”

“But an artist grows old, Leo,” she said.

“Perhaps you have been saving a little yourself, Nina?” he said, at a venture.

“Oh, yes, I have, Leo, a little,” she answered, rather shamefacedly.

“What for?” he made bold to ask.

“Oh, how do I know?” she said, with downcast eyes.  “Many things might happen:  is it not safer?  No, Leo, you must not say I love money for itself; it is not fair to me; but—­but if a dear friend is ill—­if a doctor says to him, ’Suspend all work and go away to Capri, to Algeria, to Eg—­Egippo’—­is it right?—­and perhaps he has been indiscreet—­he has been too generous to all his companions—­he is in need—­then you say, ‘Here, take mine—­it is between friends.’  Then you are proud to have money, are you not?”

“I’m afraid, Nina, that’s what they call a parable,” said he, darkly.  “But I am sure of this, that if that person were to be taken ill, and were so very poor, and were to go to Nina for help, I don’t think he would have to fear any refusal.  And then, as you say, Nina, you would be proud to have the money—­just as I know you would be ready to give it.”

It was rarely that Nina blushed, but now her pretty, pale face fairly burned with conscious pleasure; and he hardly dared to look, yet he fancied there was something of moisture in the long, dark lashes, while she did not speak for some seconds.  Perhaps he had been too bold in interpreting her parable.