He had
got into the habit of risking his neck, and his tendency
to run into unnecessary peril seemed to her
a form of intemperance which should be quietly
but steadily resisted. Finding all her arguments
unavailing against his dogged resolve to go his
own way, she fired her last shot.
"Let us be honest about it, anyway," she said;
"and call things by their true names. It is not
Domenichino's difficulty that makes you so determined
to go. It is your own personal passion for----"
"It's not true!" he interrupted vehemently.
"He is nothing to me; I don't care if I never see
him again."
He broke off, seeing in her face that he had
betrayed himself. Their eyes met for an instant,
and dropped; and neither of them uttered the
name that was in both their minds.
"It--it is not Domenichino I want to save," he
stammered at last, with his face half buried in the
cat's fur; "it is that I--I understand the danger
of the work failing if he has no help."
She passed over the feeble little subterfuge, and
went on as if there had been no interruption:
"It is your passion for running into danger
which makes you want to go there.
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