“Well?” Still she did not turn to him, though he paused awkwardly, and began to walk again.

“Gianluca asked me the other day whether I disliked you,” he said.

“Well?  Do you?” Her tone was unnaturally cold, even to her 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 could never marry him.  I told him so again on the day when we had first fenced, and you went to walk after the rain.”

“That is why he has been worse, since then.  It began that very evening.”