most unmannerly coldness, and repenting of it, she meant, in pure
innocence of maiden purpose, to make it up to him now, by being more
kind. Indeed, she could not understand why she had ever been so hard to
him in former days, excepting when he had spoken so rudely to her at
Bianca's house; and since she had seen and learned to value his loyal
affection for Gianluca, she had not only forgiven him for what he had
said, but had found that, on the whole, he had been right to say it.

As for her marriage with Gianluca, it seemed to her to have changed
nothing, beyond the great change it had wrought in him for the better.
She talked with him as before. She felt, as before, that he was her
dearest and best friend. To please him, she made plans with him for
their future, though sometimes the sharp fear for his life ran through
her heart like a needle of ice. They could live half the year in Naples
and the other six months in Muro, but sometimes, when he should be quite
well, they would travel and see the world together. It was pleasant to
think that they had the right to be always together, now, for it would
have seemed terrible even to Veronica to go back to the old days of
letter-writing. To her, their marriage had been the final cementing of
the most beautiful friendship in the world. She was glad that she had
given her life for him, since, after all, the giving of it now changed
it so little. It was clear, she thought, that she was made for
friendship and not for love; and since she was so made, she had done the
best in marrying her best friend.

One day, when Gianluca was asleep, she had gone alone to her little rose
garden up by the dungeon tower. The autumn was beginning in the
mountains; there were few roses left, and the northerly breeze blew up
to her out of the vast depth at her feet. Alone there, she thought of
all these things and of how she was intended by her nature for this
friendship of hers. Seasoning about it with herself, she took an
imaginary case. Suppose, she thought, that she had begun to be
Taquisara's friend, instead of Gianluca's, on that day in Bianca's
garden. Her mind worked quickly. She pictured to herself the long
correspondence, the intimacy of thought, the meeting and the destruction
of the dividing barrier, the daily, hourly growing friendship, and
then--the marriage, the touch of hands, the first kiss.

The scarlet blood leapt up like fire to her face. She started and
looked round, half dr