he may," Aurora answered very gravely.

Then she was silent, and Marcello could not help looking at her as she
leaned back in the corner of the sofa. Of all things, at that moment, he
dreaded lest he should lose command of himself under the unexpected
influence of her beauty, of old memories, of the failing light, of the
tender shadows that still lingered under her eyes, of that exquisite
small hand that lay idly on the sofa beside her, just within his reach.
He rose abruptly, no longer trusting himself.

"I must be going," he said.

"Already? Why?" She looked up at him and their eyes met.

"Because I cannot be alone with you any longer. I do not trust myself."

"Yes, you do. You are a man now, and I trust you."

He had spoken roughly and harshly in his momentary self-contempt, but
her words were clear and quiet, and rang true. He stood still in silence
for a moment.

"And besides," she added softly, "she trusts you too."

There was a little emphasis on the word "she" and in her tone that was a
reproach, and he looked at her in wonder.

"We cannot talk of her, you and I," she said, turning her eyes to the
fire, "but you know what I mean, Marcello. It is not enough to be kind.
We women do not think so much of that as you men fancy. You must be true
as well."

"I know it," Marcello answered, bending his head a little. "Good-bye,
Aurora."

"No. Not good-bye, for you will come again soon, and then again, and
often."

"Shall I?"

"Yes, because we can trust each other, though we are fond of each other.
We are not children any longer, as we used to be."

"Then I will come sometimes."

He took her hand, trying not to feel that it was in his, and he left her
sitting by the rather dreary little fire, in the rather shabby room, in
the grey twilight.

As he drove through the wet streets, he went over all she had said, went
over it again and again, till he knew her words by heart. But he did not
try, or dare to try, to examine what he felt, and was going to feel. The
manliness that had at last come to its full growth in him clung to the
word "true" as she had meant it.

But she, being left alone, leaned forward, resting her elbows on her
knees and clasping her hands as she gazed at the smouldering remains of
the fire. She had known well enough that she had loved him before he had
come; she had known it too well when he had told her how he had driven
Folco out of his house for having spoken of her too carelessl