“Forgive me if my heart dictates what my obedience to you must effectually forbid,” said Giovanni.  “I beseech you to be satisfied that what you ask I will perform—­blindly.”

“Not blindly—­you know all my reasons.”

“There is that between you and me which annihilates reason,” answered Giovanni, his voice trembling a little.

“There is that in my position which should command your respect,” said Corona.  She feared he was going too far, and yet this time she knew she had not said too much, and that in bidding him avoid her, she was only doing what was strictly necessary for her peace.  “I am a widow,” she continued, very gravely; “I am a woman, and I am alone.  My only protection lies in the courtesy I have a right to expect from men like you.  You have expressed your sympathy; show it then by cheerfully fulfilling my request.  I do not speak in riddles, but very plainly.  You recall to me a moment of great pain, and your presence, the mere fact of my receiving you, seems a disloyalty to the memory of my husband.  I have given you no reason to believe that I ever took a greater interest in you than such as I might take in a friend.  I hourly pray that this—­this too great interest you show in me, may pass quickly, and leave you what you were before.  You see I do not speak darkly, and I do not mean to speak unkindly.  Do not answer me, I beseech you, but take this as my last word.  Forget me if you can—­”

“I cannot,” said Giovanni, deeply moved.

“Try.  If you cannot, God help you! but I am sure that if you try faithfully, you will succeed.  And now you must go,” she said, in gentler tones.  “You should not have come—­I should not have let you see me.  But it is best so.  I am grateful for the sympathy you have expressed.  I do not doubt that you will do as I have asked you, and as you have promised.  Good-bye.”

Corona rose to her feet, her hands folded before her.  Giovanni had no choice.  She let her eyes rest upon him, not unkindly, but she did not extend her hand.  He stood one moment in hesitation, then bowed and left the room without a word.  Corona stood still, and her eyes followed his retreating figure until at the door he turned once more and bent his head and then was gone.  Then she fell back into her chair and gazed listlessly at the wall opposite.

“It is done,” she said at last.  “I hope it is well done and wisely.”  Indeed it had been a hard thing to say; but it was better to say it at once than to regret an ill-timed indulgence when it should be too late.  And yet it had cost her less to send him away definitely than it had cost her to resist his passionate appeal a month ago.  She seemed to have gained strength from her sorrows.  So he was gone!  She gave a sigh of relief, which was instantly followed by a sharp throb of pain, so sudden that she hardly understood it.