something too holy to be in this
world--just because it was innocent, and his own was not. For herself he
set her on no pedestal, he did not worship her, he did not love her, he
admired her with the cold judgment of a man of taste. It is the purity
of the unblemished and unspotted victim that makes the outward holiness
of the sacrifice. He thought of his own life and of hers, hitherto side
by side, and he thought of their joint life in, the future, she taking
him for what he was not, and he was ashamed.

In the first moment he had a brave impulse to tell her everything and be
a man, even if he ruined the woman he had loved so long, as well as the
brother who bore his name. It was only an impulse, and his lips remained
sealed and his face calm.

"I do thank you," he said in a low voice, when he had kissed her hand
that second time. "I will do what I can to make you happy."

Yet he knew now, from the strength of that passing impulse, that if she
had not spoken first, he would not have asked her directly to marry him.
Twenty times during that long day, alone in his room, he had sworn that
he would not marry her, whatever happened. For it was not enough that
Matilde had set him free, and that he had rejoiced for one hour in his
liberty. That was not enough. Matilde could not undo the work of many
years by a word and a gesture. His hell was already a desert without
her. But now, there was no drawing back.

Forty-eight hours ago, in that very room, almost at that hour, he had
told Matilde that he would never marry Veronica Serra. And now, almost
on the same spot, and facing the same way, he was telling Veronica Serra
that he would do his best to make her happy.

"I am sure you will," she answered.

"I should deserve evil things if I did not," he said, passing his hand
over his eyes, to shut out the sight of the innocence that faced him.

Suddenly it came over him that she must expect him to say more, to be
passionate, to say that he loved her beyond all mortal things, and set
her far above immortality itself, and such unproportioned phrases of the
love-sick when the instant healing of response touches the fainting
heart. All that, she must expect. Why not? Other women expected it, and
heard all they desired, well or ill spoken, according to the man's
eloquence, but always well according to their own hearts. Surely he must
say something also. He must tell her how he had dreamed of this instant,
how her white shade had v