“It does not seem such a very terrible thing,” said Matilde, her tone suddenly changing and growing thoughtful.  “It really does not seem to me such a dreadful thing that you should be Veronica’s husband.  Of course I do not speak of the material advantages.  You were always an idealist, Bosio—­you do not care for those things, and I daresay that when you are married you will not even care to take her titles, nor to spend much of her money.  I know well enough what passes in your mind.  Sit down.  Let us talk about it.  We cannot afford to quarrel, you and I, can we?  I am sorry I spoke as I did—­and I never meant that you were cowardly in the ordinary sense.  I was angry about Taquisara.  What right had he to come here, to pry into our affairs?  I should think you would have resented it, too.”

“I did,” said Bosio, somewhat sullenly.  “But I could not turn him out, nor get into a quarrel with him.  It would have made a useless scandal and would have set every one talking.”

“Certainly,” assented Matilde.  “Perhaps you did right, after all—­at least, you thought you did.  I am sure of that.  I do not know why I was so angry at you.  I am unstrung, and nervous, I suppose.  Did I say very dreadful things to you, dear?  I do not know what I said—­”

“You called me a coward several times,” replied Bosio, thinking to show a little strength by relenting slowly.

“Oh! but I did not mean it!” cried the countess.  “Bosio, forgive me.  I did not mean to say such things—­indeed, I did not.  But do you wonder that I am nervous?  Say that you forgive me—­”

“Of course I forgive you,” answered Bosio, raising his eyebrows rather wearily.  “I know that you are under a terrible strain—­but you say things sometimes which are unjust and hard.  I know what all this means to us both—­but there must be some other way.”

Matilde shook her head mournfully, as Bosio sat down beside her, already sinking back to his long-learned docility.

“There is no other way,” she said.  “There is certainly none, that is sure.  I have thought it all over, as one thinks of everything when everything is in danger.  The only other course is to throw ourselves upon Veronica’s mercy—­”

“Well?  Why not?” asked Bosio, eagerly, as Don Teodoro’s advice gained instant plausibility again.  “She is kind, she is charitable, she will forgive everything and save you—­”

“The shame of it, Bosio!  Of confessing it all—­and she may refuse.  Veronica is not all kindness and charity.  She is a Serra, as I am, and though she is a mere girl, if she takes it into her head to be hard and unforgiving, there would be no power on earth that could move her.  She is not so unlike me, Bosio.  You may think so because she is so unlike me in looks.  She has the type of her father, poor Tommaso.  But we Serra are all Serra—­there is not much difference.  No—­do not interrupt me, dear.  And as for your marriage, there is much