I have--no mother," she added with simple pathos.
The moisture came into his eyes.

He must have been stone not to be touched by the appealing, by the tender inquisition, of that look.
"Guida," he said impetuously, "if I deceive you, may every fruit of life turn to dust and ashes in my mouth! If ever I deceive you, may I die a black, dishonourable death, abandoned and alone! I should deserve that if I deceived you, Guida." For the first time since he had spoken she smiled, yet her eyes filled with tears too.
"You will let me tell you that I love you, Guida--it is all I ask now: that you will listen to me ?" She sighed, but did not answer.

She kept looking at him, looking as though she would read his inmost soul.

Her face was very young, though the eyes were so wise in their simplicity.
"You will give me my chance--you will listen to me, Guida, and try to understand--and be glad ?" he asked, leaning closer to her and holding out his hands.
She drew herself up slightly as with an air of relief and resolve.

She put a hand in his.
"I will try to understand--and be glad," she answered.
"Won't you call me Philip ?" he said.
The same slight, mischievous smile crossed her lips now as eleven years ago in the Rue d'Egypte, and recalling that moment, she replied: "Yes, sir--Philip!" At that instant the figure of a man appeared on the shingle beneath, looking up towards them.