He walked more quickly, and as he
did so he heard the notes of a guitar, and then the sound of a girl
singing. It was only the hard, coarse voice of a street-singer, and the
language was Italian. He did not understand the words, but the music
was seductive, the night of spring, star-lit and fragrant with
intangible odors, quickened his sense. Constantly recurring in the
song, as if set there for his ear, he understood the magic word
"_amore, amore_" strung like beads down the necklace warm on a girl's
bosom. Surely he had a right to be human. All the world had leave to
love. He had given Mrs. Fenton up; she was only a memory; he should
never speak to her again; it could not be wrong simply to walk past her
house. He had lost even his friend; if this poor act were a comfort, it
surely was not sin. "_Amore--amore_," sang the Italian girl over there
in the warm, palpitating night. He had consecrated his love as an
offering on the altar; surely he need not therefore deny it.
He had gained Beacon Street, and was walking rapidly, his cheeks hot
and flushed, his heart on fire. Far down a neighboring street he heard
the approach of a band of the Salvation Army.
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