“An appointment!” Taquisara laughed contemptuously.  “Do you not come often to see the Princess Corleone?  You will come again.  And Gianluca will come often, too—­and if you chance to meet to-morrow, it will be an accident of fate, that is all, as you chanced to see me here to-day.  You cannot forbid him to come here.  You cannot, without a reason, ask Donna Bianca to refuse to receive him—­”

“Oh!—­if she ever guessed—­” Veronica checked herself, still blushing, but Taquisara was too sincerely in earnest to smile at the slip she had made.

“That is all,” he said.  “There is neither appointment, nor engagement, nor anything but the possibility of a meeting which you cannot be sure of avoiding, unless you never come to see your friend, or unless you give her some unjust reason for not letting him come, in case he calls.  There is nothing but chance.  How can I tell whether you will come to-morrow, or not?  I shall perhaps never know, for I shall not come with him.  I have been here to-day—­what excuse could I give for calling again to-morrow?  Donna Bianca would think it strange.  I can hope, for his sake.  I can tell you that no woman has the right to throw away such love as his, to ruin such a life as his, to break such a heart without a thought and without so much as hearing the man speak—­whatever this wretched society in which we live may say about proprieties and rights and wrongs, and the difference between the proper behaviour for young girls and married women.  This is God’s earth, Donna Veronica—­not society’s!”

Veronica said nothing; but there was perplexity in her face, and she looked down, and pulled at one finger of her glove.  She was wondering whether, if she came on the next day, and stood with Gianluca della Spina on that very spot, he would speak for himself as strongly and well as his friend had been speaking for him.

Somehow, she doubted it, and somehow, too, she knew that if by magic Taquisara should all at once turn out to be the real Gianluca,—­not the Gianluca she knew,—­she should be better satisfied with the world.  For as things seemed just then, she was not satisfied at all, and the future was more dim and uncertain than ever.  Still she looked down, thinking, and Taquisara glanced at her occasionally, and respected her silence.

“You do not know Bosio Macomer,” she said, at last.  “Or you know him little.  If you chanced to be his friend, instead of Don Gianluca’s, you could speak as eloquently for him.”

“I think not,” answered Taquisara.  And his lip curled a little, though she did not see the expression.

“Why not?  You do not know him.  How can you tell?  A little while ago, you said that he was not to be compared to your friend.  How can you be so sure?  Everything is not written in men’s faces.”

“I judge as I can, from what I see and know.”

“So do I.”