Bosio felt that, in his place, a strong, brave man would have done something, would have stood up to deny the engagement, perhaps, or would have left the room rather than accept the situation in submissive silence, protesting in some way, though only Matilde should have understood the protest.  She, on her side, slowly nodded her approval of his conduct, and in her dark eyes there was a yellow reflexion from the predominating colour of the room; there was triumph and satisfaction, and there was the threat of the woman who dominates the man and is sure of doing with him as she pleases.  Yet she was not so sure of herself as she seemed, and wished to seem, for she dreaded Bosio’s sense of honour, which was not wholly dead.

“Do not deny it to Gregorio,” she said, in a low tone, when she heard her husband’s footstep returning through the room beyond.

Old Macomer came back and closed the door behind him.

“What is this?” he asked, at once; but though his voice was hard, it was trembling with the anticipation of a great victory.  “Has Veronica consented?”

“No one has spoken to her,” answered Bosio, before Matilde could speak.

“As though that mattered!” cried the countess, with contempt.  “There is time for that!”

Gregorio’s eyelids contracted with an expression of cunning.

“Oh!” he exclaimed thoughtfully, “I understand.”  He began to walk up and down in the narrow space between the furniture of the small sitting-room, bending his head between his high shoulders.  “I see,” he repeated.  “I understand.  But if Veronica refuses?  You have been rash, Matilde.”

“Veronica loves him,” answered the countess.  “And of course you know that he loves her,” she added, and her smooth lips smiled.  “You need not deny it before us, Bosio.  You have loved her ever since she came from the convent—­”

“I?” Bosio’s pale face reddened with anger.

“See how he blushes!” laughed Matilde.  “As for Veronica, she will talk to no one else.  They are made for each other.  She will die if she does not marry Bosio soon.”

The yellow reflexion danced in her eyes, as she fastened them upon her brother-in-law’s face, and he shuddered, remembering what she had said before the Duca had come.

“If that is the case,” said Macomer, “the sooner they are married, the better.  Save her life, Bosio!  Save her life!  Do not let her die of love for you!”

He, who rarely laughed, laughed now, and the sound was horrible in his brother’s ears.  Then he suddenly turned away and left the room, still drily chuckling to himself.  It was quite unconscious and an effect of his overwrought and long-controlled nerves.

Matilde and Bosio were alone again, and they knew that he would not come back.  Bosio sank into his chair again, and pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes, resting his elbows on his knees.

“The infamy of it!” he groaned, in the bitterness of his weak misery.