r own ears.

He stood still on the other side of the table, looking towards her.

"No," he said, as though he were making an effort. "If he asked me the
question, it must be that I have behaved rudely to you before him. Have
I?"

"I have not noticed it," answered Veronica, as coldly as before.

"It would certainly not have been intentional, if there had been
anything to notice. If I speak of it now, it is because Gianluca spoke
to me, and because, if we are to talk about him, the way must be clear.
You say that it is? May I go on?"

Veronica did not answer at once. Then she rose slowly, turned, and stood
before the low, long chimneypiece.

"Why should we talk about him at all?" she asked, at length determining
what to say. "We shall not agree, and we can only repeat what we have
both said before now. It can be of no use."

"I have something more to say," replied Taquisara.

"Yes. There may be more to be said, that may be better not said. I know
what it is. You once accused me of playing with him. You said it rudely
and roughly, but I have forgiven you for saying it. You would have more
reason for saying it now than you had then, and I should be less angry.
You have a better right to speak, and I have less right to defend
myself. But I will speak for you. I am not afraid."

"No. That is the last thing any one could say of you!"

"Or of you, perhaps," she said, more kindly, and it was the first word
of appreciation she had ever given him. "We are neither of us cowards.
That is why I am willing to tell you what I think of myself. It is
almost what you think of me--that I have done a thousand things which
might make Don Gianluca, and his father and mother, too, believe that if
he recovers I mean to marry him. But you think me a heartless woman. I
am not. There are things which you neither know, nor could understand if
you knew them. I will ask you only one question. Is there any imaginable
reason why I should wish to hurt him?"

"None that I can guess," answered Taquisara, looking into her eyes.

"Then you must understand what I have done. Out of too much friendship
I have made a great mistake. What you can never understand, I suppose,
is, that I can feel for him what you do--just that, and no more--or more
of that, perhaps, and nothing else. A woman can be a man's friend, as
well as a man can. I never played with him--as you call it--though you
have enough right to say it. I told him from the first that I coul