“Veronica,” said Bianca, at last, “why do you not marry Gianluca, since you have grown to liking him so much?”

“I like him for a friend,” answered Veronica, quietly.  “I do not want a husband.  Some day, I will tell you my story, perhaps—­some day, if you will come to Muro, dear.  Think about it.”

She left the room rather abruptly, and Bianca did not refer to the subject again.  She had the power, rare in either of two friends, of not asking questions.  Confidence given for the asking, however readily, is but the little silver coin of friendship; the gold is confidence unasked.

In the days that followed, Gianluca wrote to Veronica again and again, about all manner of subjects which had come up in their conversation; and Veronica’s short notes of thanks grew longer, until she found that she, too, was beginning to write real letters, and looked forward to writing them, as well as to receiving his.  And his came oftener, until she had one almost every day.

But when he came, as he did, twice a week, to the villa, they rarely spoke of their correspondence.  Somehow it had come to be a bond linking certain sides of their natures which they did not show to each other when they met and talked.  They never could talk as freely as they wrote, even upon the most indifferent subjects, though Gianluca seemed perfectly at his ease in conversation.  There was a sort of undefined restraint from time to time, together with the certainty that they would write what they really meant, within a day or two, and understand each other far better than by spoken words.

In Gianluca’s case such a condition of things was natural enough.  He felt that she understood friendship when he meant love, and he was aware that he was progressing slowly but surely towards the freedom to say what was always in his heart, while his success must depend upon his wisdom and tact in not surprising her with a declaration of passion, in the midst of a discussion upon church history or modern systems of charity.  Compared with what he had felt in their former relations, he was happy, now, beyond his utmost expectations; and, in the relative happiness he had found, he was willing to be patient, rather than to risk anything prematurely.

It was more strange, perhaps, that Veronica should regard this growing intimacy as she did, for she had no under-thought of a future change to something else, as he had, and she was naturally simple in reasoning and direct in action.  Yet she could not but be aware that there was a sort of duality in their friendship, and she never confused the ideas they exchanged when in the one state—­that is to say, when writing—­with those about which they talked when an actual meeting brought them into the other.  The one state already was an intimacy; the other was hardly yet more than a pleasant acquaintance, with the memory of a disagreeable beginning.  Such curiosities of human intercourse are more easily understood by those who have met with them in life than explained to those who have not.  The facts were plain.  When Veronica and Gianluca were together in Bianca’s drawing-room, they said nothing which might not have been heard with indifference by all Naples.  When they wrote to each other they spoke of themselves, of their real thoughts about things and people, of their belief, and, to some extent, of their feelings.