Then she heard him say under his breath--'Marvellous, marvellous Italy!' She started and gave a slight cry--unsteady, involuntary.
'But you don't love her!--you are ungrateful to her!' He looked up surprised--then laughed--a frank, pugnacious laugh.
'There is Italy--and Italy.' 'There is only one Italy!--Aristodemo's Italy--the Italy the peasants work in.' She turned to him, breathing quicker, the colour returning to her pale cheek.
'The Italy that has just sent seven thousand of her sons to butchery in a wretched colony, because her hungry politicians must have glory and keep themselves in office?
You expect me to love that Italy ?' Within the kind new sweetness of his tone--a sweetness no man could use more subtly--there had risen the fiery accustomed note.

But so restrained, so tempered to her weakness, her momentary dependence upon him! 'You might be generous to her--just, at least!--for the sake of the old.' She trembled a little from the mere exertion of speaking, and he saw it.
'No controversy to-night!' he said smiling.

'Wait till you are fit for it, and I will overwhelm you.

Do you suppose I don't know all about the partisan literature you have been devouring ?' 'One had to hear the other side.' 'Was I such a bore with the right side ?' They both laughed.

Then he said, shrugging his shoulders with sudden emphasis: 'What a nation of revolutionists you are in America! What does it feel like, I wonder, to be a people without a past, without traditions ?' Lucy exclaimed: 'Why, we are made of traditions!' 'Traditions of revolt and self-will are no traditions,' he said provokingly.