Veronica did not appear at dinner that evening, but remained in her room, sending word to the countess that she had a headache and wished to be alone.  Matilde thought it not unnatural that the girl should wish to reflect in solitude upon the grave problem which had been given her for consideration.  It would be wiser, too, not to disturb her, but to leave her to herself to reach her own conclusions.  Matilde knew that Veronica had considerable gifts of contrariety, and that it would be a mistake to press her too closely for a definite answer.  Besides, it was always a tradition in such cases that a young girl should have, in name at least, perfect independence of action, and the ultimate right to refuse an offer or accept it.

It was hard to sit still at the dinner table and behave with an appearance of being reasonable, while knowing that the fate of the household depended upon the answer of the young girl—­from the personal liberty of two out of the three persons who sat at the meal, to the disposal of the forks and spoons with which they were eating, and the roof over their heads.  It was very hard even to make a pretence of swallowing a little food, when all three knew the truth, and none dared to refer to it in any way lest the servants should guess at what was taking place.  They spent a terribly uncomfortable hour in one another’s society.  The two men exchanged indifferent remarks.  Matilde occasionally said something, but her mind ran constantly on absurd details, such as the incident of the hiding of the will.  As soon as her husband had left her, she had taken it from the drawer, relocking the latter, and again placing the key under the carpet.  Then she had taken the will into her dressing-room and had hidden it temporarily in another drawer.  To distract her mind during dinner, she tried to think of a better place for it, and at last determined to unscrew the wooden back of a large old silver mirror which stood on her dressing-table, and to lay the two open sheets of the document upon the back of the looking-glass.  When it was all screwed up again, it would not be easy to find Veronica’s will.  Matilde also thought of the aconite which Gregorio had recommended her to keep, and of where she could put it, out of the way of the servants.

Once, towards the end of dinner, Gregorio’s terrifying laugh broke out suddenly, as the butler was offering him something.  The man started back a little and stared, and the spoon and fork clattered to the ground over the edge of the silver dish.  Bosio started, too, but Matilde fixed her eyes sternly on Gregorio’s face.  He saw that she looked at him, and he nodded, suddenly assuming the expression of docility she had noticed for the first time in the afternoon.

Before they left the table they were all three in that excruciating state of rawness of the nerves, in which a man has the sensation that his brain is a violent explosive which a single jarring sound or word must ignite and blow to atoms, like a bomb-shell.