depths.

"Don Gianluca--" she began, with a little hesitation. But as she spoke
there was a footfall in the embrasure.

"What were you going to say?" asked Gianluca, knowing from her tone that
she had meant to speak of some grave matter.

"Nothing!" she answered with a little sharpness. "Pray take my chair,
Duchessa," she said, turning to the good lady, who had come slowly
forward till she stood with her head just out in the air. "It is time
for luncheon," she added, as she made the Duchessa sit down, nodded
quickly to Gianluca, and went in.

CHAPTER XXIII.

The regularity of the existence at Muro pleased the old couple, and
contributed in a measure to allay their perpetual anxiety about their
son and to calm their uneasiness about the whole situation. They were
both too wise and too courteous to press the question of marriage upon
Veronica under the present circumstances, but they did not feel that
they were led too far by their affection for Gianluca when they told
each other, in the privacy of the Duchessa's dressing-room, that after
what Veronica had now done she was bound, in common self-respect, to
marry him. That he would recover from his illness, they never doubted;
for, as has been said, the truth had been kept from them, in so far as
the prognostications of doctors could be looked upon as worthy of
belief. He had certainly been much better since they had brought him to
Muro, and they secretly wished that they might all stay where they were
until the autumn.

On that first day, Veronica had been on the point of speaking very
plainly to Gianluca, intending to tell him once again that he must not
be deceived, that she should never marry him, and indeed had no
intention of ever marrying at all. But she had been interrupted by the
coming of the Duchessa; and, as she had not spoken at the first
opportunity, she did not purposely create another at once. She was not
skilful in such situations. When her directness came into conflict with
her sense of delicacy, one or the other gave way; for in serious matters
she instinctively hated complicated methods, and though she could be
hard and perhaps unnecessarily cruel, yet she would at any time rather
be over-kind than take refuge in the compromises of what most people
call tact. The weaknesses of the strong are like the crevasses in a
glacier; they have a general direction, but it is impossible to know
certainly beforehand the precise depth or importance of