Giovanni stood motionless in the middle of the room.  His eyes had followed his wife’s movements and he watched her in silence for a short time.  Convinced, as he was, of her guilt, he believed she was acting a part, and that her kneeling down was merely intended to produce a theatrical effect.  The accent of truth in her words made no impression whatever upon him, and her actions seemed to him too graceful to be natural, too dignified for a woman who was not trying all the time to make the best of her appearance.  The story she had told coincided too precisely, if possible, with the doings of which he had accused her, while it failed in his judgment to explain the motives of what she had done.  He said to himself that he, in her place, would have told everything on that first occasion when she had come home and had found him waiting for her.  He forgot, or did not realise, that she had been taken unawares, when she expected to find time to consider her course, and had been forced to make up her mind suddenly.  Almost any other woman would have told the whole adventure at once; any woman less wholly innocent of harm would have seen the risk she incurred by asking her husband’s indulgence for her silence.  He was persuaded that she had played upon his confidence in her and had reckoned upon his belief in her sincerity in order to be bold with half the truth.  Suspicion and jealousy had made him so ingenious that he imputed to her a tortuous policy of deception, of which she was altogether incapable.

Corona did not kneel long.  She had no intention of making use of the appearance of prayer in order to affect Giovanni’s decision, nor in order to induce him to leave her alone.  He would, indeed, have quitted the room had she remained upon her knees a few moments longer, but when she rose and faced him once more he was still standing as she had left him, his eyes fixed upon her and his arms folded upon his breast.  He thought she was going to renew her defence, but he was mistaken.  She came and stood before him, so that a little distance separated him from her, and she spoke calmly, in her deep, musical voice.

“You have made up your mind, then.  Is that your last word?”

“It is.”

“Then I will say what I have to say.  It shall not be much, but we shall not often talk together in future.  You will remember some day what I tell you.  I am an innocent and defenceless woman.  I have no relation to whom I can appeal.  You have forbidden me to write to those who could prove me guiltless.  For the sake of our child—­for the sake of the love I have borne you—­I will make no attempt at resistance.  The world shall not know that you have even doubted me, the mother of your son, the woman who has loved you.  The time will come when you will ask my forgiveness for your deeds.  I tell you frankly that I shall never be capable of forgiving you, nor of speaking a kind word to you again.  This is neither a threat nor a warning, though it may perhaps be the means of sparing you some disappointment.  I only ask two things of your courtesy—­that you will inform me of what you mean to do with our child, and that you will then be good enough to leave me alone for a little while.”