It did not strike her that there could be any truth in his accusation.  Gianluca was old enough to take care of himself.  Was Taquisara his nurse, his keeper, his doctor?  Gianluca was not making love to her in his letters, nor was she, in hers, encouraging him to do so.  She was angry at the thought that the Sicilian should know anything of their correspondence, as it seemed evident that he must.  It was true that her own friend, Bianca, knew something about it.  She could forgive Gianluca, if he had confided too much in Taquisara, but she could not forgive Taquisara for having been the recipient of the confidence, and she would neither forgive nor forget the way in which he had shown her how much he knew.

For the first time in her life, Veronica longed to be a man, that she might not only resent the insult, but have satisfaction of the man who had insulted her.  She felt that she was emphatically not playing with Gianluca, as Taquisara had expressed it.  She had told him frankly, several months earlier, that she could not love him,—­she had shaken her head and had said that she was sorry,—­and neither he nor any one else had a right to suppose that she was now changing her mind.  Since Gianluca was apparently willing to accept the position and to be her friend, it was nobody’s affair but his and hers.  She felt that she had been fully justified in what she had said to Taquisara.  At the same time she was half conscious of being disappointed in the man, and of being wounded by the disappointment.

She left Bianca’s house early, and as she drove away to the railway station alone with Elettra, she felt that her life was only now really beginning.  The months of independence she had enjoyed had prepared her for this final move.  In the course of setting her affairs in order, she had been brought face to face with a side of the world which few women ever see or understand, and her character had hardened singularly to meet the difficulties she had found in her path.  She probably overestimated the strength she had now acquired; for more than once, on the way to the station, she felt a momentary reaction of timidity and a longing to go back and stay a few days more with Bianca.  She laughed bravely at herself for her weakness, and told herself that she was going to her own place, to be surrounded by her own people, that she was two-and-twenty years of age and had been through troubles during the past months which had proved her strength.  Nevertheless, the fact remained that she was a very young, unmarried woman, that she was going to live alone, and that she was breaking through the whole hard shell of fossilized social tradition.  Even Elettra, born a peasant of the mountains, thought her mistress’s decision amazingly bold, though she approved of it in her heart, and had been ready to go to Muro with Veronica long ago.

“What would your father, blessed soul, have said, Excellency?” she asked, when they were seated together in the train which was to take them to Eboli, beyond Salerno.