True enough!  I thought and smiled bitterly.  I was now in the heat of the game—­the moves must be played quickly—­there was no more time for hesitation or reflection.

“I think, madam,” I said, deliberately, as I folded Guido’s letter and replaced it in my pocket-book, “Signor Ferrari ardently aspires to be something more than a brother to you at no very distant date.”

Oh, the splendid hypocrisy of women!  No wonder they make such excellent puppets on the theatrical stage—­acting is their natural existence, sham their breath of life!  This creature showed no sign of embarrassment—­she raised her eyes frankly to mine in apparent surprise—­then she gave a little low laugh of disdain.

“Indeed!” she said.  “Then I fear Signor Ferrari is doomed to have his aspirations disappointed!  My dear conte,” and here she rose and swept softly across the room toward me with that graceful gliding step that somehow always reminded me of the approach of a panther, “do you really mean to tell me that his audacity has reached such a height that—­really it is too absurd!—­that he hopes to marry me?  “And sinking into a chair near mine she looked at me in calm inquiry.  Lost in amazement at the duplicity of the Vroman, I answered, briefly: 

“I believe so!  He intimated as much to me.”  She smiled scornfully.

“I am too much honored!  And did you, conte, think for a moment that such an arrangement would meet with my approval?”

I was silent.  My brain was confused—­I found it difficult to meet with and confront such treachery as this.  What!  Had she no conscience?  Were all the passionate embraces, the lingering kisses, the vows of fidelity, and words of caressing endearment as naught?  Were they all blotted from her memory as the writing on a slate is wiped out by a sponge!  Almost I pitied Guido!  His fate, in her hands, was evidently to be the same as mine had been; yet after all, why should I be surprised? why should I pity?  Had I not calculated it all? and was it not part of my vengeance?

“Tell me!” pursued my wife’s dulcet voice, breaking in upon my reflections, “did you really imagine Signer Ferrari’s suit might meet with favor at my hands?”

I must speak—­the comedy had to be played out.  So I answered, bluntly: 

“Madam, I certainly did think so.  It seemed a natural conclusion to draw from the course of events.  He is young, undeniably handsome, and on his uncle’s death will be fairly wealthy—­what more could you desire? besides, he was your husband’s friend—­”

“And for that reason I would never marry him!” she interrupted me with a decided gesture.  “Even if I liked him sufficiently, which I do not” (oh, miserable traitress), “I would not run the risk of what the world would say of such a marriage.”

“How, madam?  Pardon me if I fail to comprehend you.”

“Do you not see, conte?” she went on in a coaxing voice, as of one that begged to be believed, “if I were to marry one that was known to have been my husband’s most intimate friend, society is so wicked—­people would be sure to say that there had been something between us before my husband’s death—­I know they would, and I could not endure such slander!”