“You know that we may wait all our lives.”

“No.  I will not do that,” Sabina said with sudden energy.  “If nothing happens, I will make something happen.  You know what I told you.  Have you forgotten?  And I am sure your father will understand.”

“I doubt it,” Malipieri answered, smiling in spite of himself.

To tell the truth, since her mother had cleared away so many dangers, and showed no intention of shutting her up in a convent, Sabina had begun to see that it would be quite another matter to run away and follow Malipieri to the ideal desert island, especially after they had been openly engaged to be married and the engagement had been broken.  The world would have to know the story of his marriage then, and it would call him dishonourable for having allowed himself to be engaged to her when he was not free.  It would say that she had found out the truth, and that he was a villain, or something unpleasant of that sort.  But she meant to keep up the illusion bravely, as long as there was any life in it at all, and then “something must happen.”

“It seems so strange that I should be braver than you,” she said.

He did not wonder at that as much as she did.  Her reputation was saved now, but his honour was in the balance, and at the mercy of a worldly and unscrupulous woman.  When he broke the engagement, the Princess would tell the story of his marriage and publish it on the housetops.  He told Sabina so.

“You are safe,” he added; “but when I lose you, I shall lose my place among honourable men.”

“Then I shall tell the truth, and the whole truth, to every one I know,” Sabina answered, in the full conviction that truth, like faith, could perform miracles, and that a grain of it could remove mountains of evil.  “I shall tell the whole world!” she cried.  “I do not care what my mother says.”

He was silent, for it was better, after all, that she should believe in her happiness as long as she could.  She said nothing more for some time and they sat quite still, thinking widely opposite thoughts.  At last she laid her hand on his; the loving little way had become familiar to her since it had come instinctively the first time.

“Marino!”

“Yes?”

“You know that I love you?”

“Indeed I know it.”

“And you love me?  Just as much?  In the same way?”

“Perhaps more.  Who knows?”

“No, that is impossible,” she answered.  “Now listen to me.  It is out of the question that we should ever be parted, loving each other as we do, is it not?”

The door opened and a servant entered, with a card.

“The lady told me to inform your Excellency that she is a connection of Signor Malipieri,” said the man.  “She hopes that she may be received, as she is in Rome for only a few hours.”

Sabina looked at the card and handed it silently to Malipieri, and her fingers trembled.