Bosio was willing to put off the moment of going home as long as possible, and he accompanied his friend to the door of Don Matteo’s lodging, which was in a clean, quiet, sunlit street, behind the Piazza—­in one of those oases of light and cleanliness upon which one sometimes comes in the heart of Naples.  The little green door was reached by a couple of steps up from the level of the street.  Don Teodoro had a key and stood on the upper step, holding it in his hand and blinking in the warm sunshine.

“You know this house,” he said.  “You have been to see me here once or twice.  If you want me, you can always send for me in the afternoon, for I only go out in the morning.  But I will come and see you.  When?  To-morrow, before noon?”

“Yes,” Bosio answered.  “By to-morrow at midday something will be decided.”

They shook hands and parted, Bosio turning eastward in the direction of his home.  The priest absently tried to insert the key in the lock of the door, while his eyes followed his friend to the corner of the street.  Then, as Bosio’s still graceful figure disappeared, he turned from the keyhole with a sigh, and let himself in.

Bosio walked rapidly at first, and then more slowly as he came nearer to the old quarter in which the Palazzo Macomer was situated.  As with all men of such character, his irresolution increased just when he fancied that he was about to do something decisive.  He would not have hesitated in the same way, if he had been called upon to face a physical danger; for though he was certainly no hero, he was by no means a physical coward, and in a quarrel he would have stood up bravely enough to face his antagonist.  But this was very different.  He had been ruled by Matilde Macomer through many years, and when he thought of meeting her he had a deadly presentiment of assured defeat.  She would extract from him something more than the silent assent which he had been forced into giving on the previous evening, and she could not let him go till he promised to marry Veronica.  He walked more slowly, as he felt the fear and uncertainty twisting his scant courage from his heart.

Then he was ashamed of himself, and in a sudden attempt to be brave he hailed a passing cab and drove rapidly to the Palazzo Macomer.  He asked for Veronica and was told that she was in her room.  He did not wish to send her a message.  Gregorio had gone out immediately after the midday breakfast.  Bosio was glad of that.  He had not seen his brother since the previous evening, and he did not wish to see him alone.  There were monstrous wrongs on both sides, and it was better to pretend mutual ignorance, and keep up the ghastly farce, pretending that nothing was the matter.  The very smallest incautious word would crack the swaying bubble that was blown to bursting with hell’s breath.