And now that she was married to Giovanni, another had come, and
had talked with her, and exchanged words in a low tone even as he
himself had once done. And she had treated this man roughly before
her husband, and presently afterwards had allowed him to kiss her
hand and had sent him away saying that she forgave him--just as
she had formerly forgiven Giovanni--and praying that all blessings
might go with him. Why was it not possible that she loved this
man, too? Because she was so grandly beautiful, and dark and calm,
and had such a noble fearlessness in her eyes? Other women had
been beautiful and had deceived wiser men than Giovanni, and had
fallen. Beauty was no argument for the defence, nor brave eyes,
nor the magnificent dignity of movement and speech--nor words
either, for that matter.
Suspense was agony, and yet a twofold horror seemed the only
issue, the one inevitable, the other possible. First, to accuse
this woman whom he loved so dearly, and then, perhaps, to hear her
deny the charge boldly and yet refuse all explanation. Once more
Giovanni rose from his deep chair and paced his room with regular
strides, though he scarcely saw the carpet under his feet, nor
realised any longer where he was. At last he stopped and laughed.
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