In the first moment he had a brave impulse to tell her everything and be a man, even if he ruined the woman he had loved so long, as well as the brother who bore his name.  It was only an impulse, and his lips remained sealed and his face calm.

“I do thank you,” he said in a low voice, when he had kissed her hand that second time.  “I will do what I can to make you happy.”

Yet he knew now, from the strength of that passing impulse, that if she had not spoken first, he would not have asked her directly to marry him.  Twenty times during that long day, alone in his room, he had sworn that he would not marry her, whatever happened.  For it was not enough that Matilde had set him free, and that he had rejoiced for one hour in his liberty.  That was not enough.  Matilde could not undo the work of many years by a word and a gesture.  His hell was already a desert without her.  But now, there was no drawing back.

Forty-eight hours ago, in that very room, almost at that hour, he had told Matilde that he would never marry Veronica Serra.  And now, almost on the same spot, and facing the same way, he was telling Veronica Serra that he would do his best to make her happy.

“I am sure you will,” she answered.

“I should deserve evil things if I did not,” he said, passing his hand over his eyes, to shut out the sight of the innocence that faced him.

Suddenly it came over him that she must expect him to say more, to be passionate, to say that he loved her beyond all mortal things, and set her far above immortality itself, and such unproportioned phrases of the love-sick when the instant healing of response touches the fainting heart.  All that, she must expect.  Why not?  Other women expected it, and heard all they desired, well or ill spoken, according to the man’s eloquence, but always well according to their own hearts.  Surely he must say something also.  He must tell her how he had dreamed of this instant, how her white shade had visited and soothed his dismal hours—­and the rest.  As he thought what he should say, love’s phrase-book turned to a grim and fearful blasphemy in his own inner ears.  But she expected it, of course, and he must speak, when he would have given the life he had to save her from himself and to save himself from the last fall, below which there could be no falling.  It was almost impossible.  If he had not loved Matilde Macomer still, he would have turned even then and spoken the truth, come what might.  But that remained.  He gathered the weakness of his sin into an unreal and evil strength, as best he could, and for Matilde’s sake he spoke such words as he could find—­lies against himself, against the poor rag of honour in which he still believed, even while he was tearing it from the nakedness of a sin it could not clothe—­lies against love, against manhood, against God.

“I have loved you long, Veronica,” he began.  “I had not hoped to see this day.”