“What?  It is I who do not understand—­or you—­or both of us.  Don Gianluca and I are friends.  He is very, very ill.  The doctors say that he cannot live many months, and unless I see him now, I shall never see him again.”

The old priest gazed at her in distressed surprise, and for a long time he found nothing to say.  Veronica remained silent, scarcely conscious of his presence, leaning back in her chair, with folded hands and sorrowful eyes.  The thought that Gianluca was to die was becoming more and more unceasingly painful, day by day.  The fact that he wrote regularly to her, and yet never spoke of his condition, made it worse; for it proved to her that he could be brave rather than knowingly increase her anxiety, and the suffering of a brave man gets more true sympathy from women than the cruel death of many cowards.

“I think you are very rash,” said Don Teodoro, gravely, breaking the silence at last.

Veronica turned upon him instantly, with wide and gleaming eyes, amazed at the slightest sign of opposition, criticism, or advice.

“Rash!” she exclaimed.  “Why?  Have I not the right to ask whom I please, and will, to stay under my own roof?  Who has authority over me, to say that I shall have this one for a friend, or that one, old or young?  Am I a free woman, or a schoolgirl, or a puppet doll, to which the world can tie strings to make me dance to its silly music?  Rash!  What rashness is there in asking my friend and his father and mother here?  My dear Don Teodoro, you will be telling me before long that I should take some broken-down old lady for a companion!”

“I have sometimes wondered that you do not send for one of your relations,” said the priest, who, mild as he was, could not easily be daunted when he believed himself right.

“I will make my house a refuge, or a hospital if need be, for our poor people,” answered Veronica, “but not for my relations, whom I have never seen.  I send them money sometimes, but they shall not come here to beg.  That would be too much.  I had enough of those I knew.  I am willing to feed anything that needs food except vultures.  I have chosen to live alone, and alone I will live.  The world may scream itself mad and crack with horror at my doings, if it is so sensitive.  It cannot hurt me, and if I choose to shut my gates, it cannot get in.  Besides, they are coming, the Duca, the Duchessa, and Don Gianluca, and that ends the matter.”

“Nevertheless—­” began Don Teodoro, still obstinately unwilling to retract his word.

“Dear friend,” interrupted Veronica, with sudden gentleness, for she was fond of him, “I like you very much.  I respect you immensely.  I could not do half I am doing without you.  But you do not quite understand me.  I am sorry that you should think me rash, if the idea of rashness is unpleasant to you—­I will make any other concession in reason rather than quarrel with you.  But please do not argue with me when I have made up my mind.  I am quite sure that I shall have my own way in the end, and when the end comes, you will be very glad that you could not hinder me, because I am altogether right.  Now we understand each other, do we not?”