“All, all different,” repeated Corona in a low voice.  “Oh, how could I be so unkind!  How could I show you what I felt?”

Suddenly, and without the least warning, she sprang to her feet and made two steps towards him.  The impulse was there, but the reality was gone.  Her arms were stretched out, and there was a look of supreme anguish in her eyes She stopped short, then turned away once more, and as she sank upon the couch, burying her face in the cushions, the long restrained tears broke forth, and she sobbed as though her heart must break.

Giovanni wished that his own suffering could find such an outlet, but there was no such relief possible for his hardy masculine nature.  He could not bear the sight of her grief, and yet he knew that he could not comfort her, that to lay his hand upon her forehead would only add a new sting to the galling wound.  He turned his face away and leaned against the heavy chimney-piece, longing to shut out the sound of her sobs from his ears, submitting to a torture that might well have expiated a greater misdeed than his.  The time was past when he could feel that an unbroken chain of evidence had justified him in doubting and accusing Corona.  He knew the woman he had injured better now than he had known her then, for he understood the whole depth and breadth of the love he had so ruthlessly destroyed.  It was incredible to him, now, that he should ever have mistrusted a creature so noble, so infinitely grander than himself.  Every tear she shed fell like molten fire upon his heart, every sob that echoed through the quiet room was a reproach that racked his heart-strings and penetrated to the secret depths of his soul.  He could neither undo what he had done nor soothe the pain inflicted by his actions.  He could only stand there, and submit patiently to the suffering of his expiation.

The passionate outburst subsided at last, and Corona lay pale and silent upon her cushions.  She knew what he felt, and pitied him more than herself.

“It is foolish of me to cry,” she said presently.  “It cannot help you.”

“Help me?” exclaimed Giovanni, turning suddenly.  “It is not I, it is you.  I would have died to save you those tears.”

“I know it—­would I not give my life to spare you this?  And I will.  Come and sit beside me.  Take my hand.  Kiss me—­be your own self.  It is not true that your kisses hurt me—­it shall not be true—–­”

“You do not mean it, dear,” replied Giovanni, sadly.  “I know how true it is.”

“It shall not be true.  Am I a devil to hurt you so?  Was it all your fault?  Was I not wrong too?  Indeed—­”

“No, my beloved.  There is nothing wrong in you.  If you do not love me—­”

“I do.  I will, in spite of myself.”

“You mean it, darling—­I know.  You are good enough, even for that.  But you cannot.  It must be all my doing, now.”