The girl’s pale face flushed, and she said, quickly,

“There are some things that are not to be expressed in words, Signor Calabressa.  I cannot tell you what I think of your kindness to me.”

“Silence! do you not understand my joking? Eh, bien; let us understand each other.  Your father has spoken to me—­a little, not much.  He would rather have an end to the love affair, n’est ce pas?”

“There are some other things that are not to be spoken of,” the girl said, in a low voice, but somewhat proudly.

“Natalushka, I will not have you answer me like that.  It is not right.  If you knew all my history, perhaps you would understand why I ask you questions—­why I interfere—­why you think me impertinent—­”

“Oh no, signore; how can I think that?”

She had her mother’s portrait in her hand; she was gazing into the face that was so strangely like her own.

“Then why not answer me?”

She looked up with a quick, almost despairing look.

“Because I try not to think about it,” she said, hurriedly.  “Because I try to think only of my work.  And now, Signor Calabressa, you have given me something else to think about; something to be my companion when I am alone; and from my heart I thank you.”

“But you speak as if you were in great grief, my little one.  It is not all over between you and your lover?”

“How can I tell?  What can I say?” she exclaimed; and for a moment her eyes looked up with the appealing look of a child.  “He does not write to me.  I may not write to him.  I must not see him.”

“But then there may be reasons for delay and consideration, little Natalushka; your father may have reasons.  And your father did not speak to me as if it were altogether impossible.  What he said was, in effect, ‘We will see—­we will see.’  However, let us return to the important point:  it is my advice to you—­you cannot have forgotten it—­that whatever happens, whatever you may think, do not, little one, seek to go against your father’s wishes.  You will promise me that?”

“I have not forgotten, signore; but do you not remember my answer?  I am no longer a child.  If I am to obey, I must have reasons for obeying.”

“What?” said he smiling.  “And you know that one of our chief principles is that obedience is a virtue in itself?”

“I do not belong to your association, Signor Calabressa.”

“The little rebel!”

“No, no, signore; do not drive me into a false position.  I cannot understand my father, who has always been so kind to me; it is better not to speak of it:  some day, when you come back, Signore Calabressa, you will find it all a forgotten story.  Some people forget so readily; do they not?”

The trace of pathetic bitterness in her speech did not escape him.

“My child,” said he, “you are suffering; I perceive it.  But it may soon be over, and your joy will be all the greater.  If not, if the future has trouble for you, remember what I have told you. Allons donc! Keep up a brave heart; but I need not say that to the child of the Berezolyis.”