“We cannot talk of her, you and I,” she said, turning her eyes to the fire, “but you know what I mean, Marcello.  It is not enough to be kind.  We women do not think so much of that as you men fancy.  You must be true as well.”

“I know it,” Marcello answered, bending his head a little.  “Good-bye, Aurora.”

“No.  Not good-bye, for you will come again soon, and then again, and often.”

“Shall I?”

“Yes, because we can trust each other, though we are fond of each other.  We are not children any longer, as we used to be.”

“Then I will come sometimes.”

He took her hand, trying not to feel that it was in his, and he left her sitting by the rather dreary little fire, in the rather shabby room, in the grey twilight.

As he drove through the wet streets, he went over all she had said, went over it again and again, till he knew her words by heart.  But he did not try, or dare to try, to examine what he felt, and was going to feel.  The manliness that had at last come to its full growth in him clung to the word “true” as she had meant it.

But she, being left alone, leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and clasping her hands as she gazed at the smouldering remains of the fire.  She had known well enough that she had loved him before he had come; she had known it too well when he had told her how he had driven Folco out of his house for having spoken of her too carelessly.  Then the blood had rushed to her throat, beating hard, and if she had not gone quickly to the window she felt that she must have cried for joy.  She was far too proud to let him guess that, but she was not too proud to love him, in spite of everything, though it meant that she compared herself with the peasant girl, and envied her, and in all maiden innocence would have changed places with her if she could.

CHAPTER XVII

It was late in the evening when Marcello reached the villa, and was told that his stepfather had left suddenly with his valet, before sunset, taking a good deal of luggage with him.  The coachman had driven him to the station and had seen no more of him.  He had not left any message or note for Marcello.  This was as it should be, and Marcello did not care to know whither he had gone, since he was out of the house.  He was glad, however, that he had left Rome at once instead of going to an hotel, which would have made an interesting topic of conversation for gossips.

Marcello vaguely wondered why Folco had told a perfectly gratuitous falsehood about Aurora, and whether he could possibly have lied merely for the sake of hurting him.  If so, he had got his deserts.  It mattered very little now, and it was a waste of thought to think of him at all.

The young man had a big fire built in the library, and sat down in his favourite leathern chair under the shaded light.  He was tired, but not sleepy, and he was glad to be alone at last, for he had felt Corbario’s evil presence in the house, though they had met little of late, and it was a great relief to know that he would never return.