“Pray do not introduce the subject of my life,” she said haughtily.

Giovanni was too much astonished to answer her at once.  He had indeed not intended the least reference to her marriage.

“You have entirely misunderstood me,” he said presently.

“Then you must express yourself more clearly,” she replied.  She would have felt very guilty to be thus talking to Giovanni, as she would not have talked before her husband, had she not felt that it was upon Giovanni’s business, and that the matter discussed in no way concerned herself.  As for Saracinesca, he was in a dangerous position, and was rapidly losing his self-control.  He was too near to her, his heart was bearing too fast, the blood was throbbing in his temples, and he was stung by being misunderstood.

“It is not possible for me to express myself more clearly,” he answered.  “I am suffering for having told you too little when I dare not tell you all.  I make no reference to your marriage when I speak to you of my own.  Forgive me; I will not refer to the matter again.”

Corona felt again that strange thrill, half of pain, half of pleasure, and the lights of the theatre seemed moving before her uncertainly, as things look when one falls from a height.  Almost unconsciously she spoke, hardly knowing that she turned her head, and that her dark eyes rested upon Giovanni’s pale face.

“And yet there must be some reason why you tell me that little, and why you do not tell me more.”  When she had spoken, she would have given all the world to have taken back her words.  It was too late.  Giovanni answered in a low thick voice that sounded as though he were choking, his face grew white, and his teeth seemed almost to chatter as though he were cold, but his eyes shone like black stars in the shadow of the box.

“There is every reason.  You are the woman I love.”

Corona did not move for several seconds, as though not comprehending what he had said.  Then she suddenly shivered, and her eyelids drooped as she leaned back in her chair.  Her fingers relaxed their tight hold upon her fan, and the thing fell rattling upon the floor of the box.

Old Astrardente, who had taken no notice of the pair, being annoyed at Giovanni’s visit, and much interested in the proceedings of Madame Mayer in the box opposite, heard the noise, and stooped with considerable alacrity to pick up the fan which lay at his feet.

“You are not well, my love,” he said quickly, as he observed his wife’s unusual pallor.

“It is nothing; it will pass,” she murmured, with a terrible effort.  Then, as though she had not said enough, she added, “There must be a draught here; I have a chill.”

Giovanni had sat like a statue, utterly overcome by the sense of his own folly and rashness, as well as by the shock of having so miserably failed to keep the secret he dreaded to reveal.  On hearing Corona’s voice, he rose suddenly, as from a dream.