Donna Tullia was silent for a moment, and her face grew grave.  There was reason in what he said.  She did not care for him—­she had never thought of marrying him; but she recognised the justice of what he said.  It was clear that a man of his social position, received everywhere and intimate with all her associates, might think of marrying her.  He looked positively handsome since he was wounded; he was accomplished and intelligent; he had sufficient means of support to prevent him from being suspected of marrying solely for money, and he had calmly stated that he loved her.  Perhaps he did.  It was flattering to Donna Tullia’s vanity to believe him, and his acts had certainly not belied his words.  He was by far the most thoughtful of all her admirers, and he affected to treat her always with a certain respect which she had never succeeded in obtaining from Valdarno and the rest.  A woman who likes to be noisy, but is conscious of being a little vulgar, is always flattered when a man behaves towards her with profound reverence.  It will even sometimes cure her of her vulgarity.  Donna Tullia reflected seriously upon what Del Ferice had said.

“I never had such a proposition made to me in my life,” she said.  “Of course you cannot think I regard it as a possible one, even now.  You cannot think I am so base as to sell myself for the sake of revenging an insult once offered me.  If I am to regard this as a proposal of marriage, I must decline it with thanks.  If it is merely a proposition for an alliance, I think the terms of the treaty are unequal.”

Del Ferice smiled.

“I knew you well enough to know what your answer would be,” he said.  “I never insulted you by dreaming that you would accept such a proposition.  But as a subject for speculation it is very pleasant.  It is delightful to me to think of being your husband; it is equally delightful to you to think of the humiliation of an enemy.  I took the liberty of uniting the two thoughts in one dream—­a dream of unspeakable bliss for myself.”

Donna Tullia’s gay humour returned.

“You have certainly amused me very well for a quarter of an hour with your dreams,” she answered.  “I wish you would tell me what you know of Don Giovanni.  It must be very interesting if it can really seriously influence his life.”

“I cannot tell you.  The secret is too valuable.”

“But if the thing you know has such power, why do you not use it yourself?  You must hate him far more than I do.”

“I doubt that,” answered Del Ferice, with a cunning smile.  “I do not use it, I do not choose to strike the blow, because I do not care enough for retribution merely on my own account.  I do not pretend to generosity, but I am not interested enough in him to harm him, though I dislike him exceedingly.  We had a temporary settlement of our difficulties the other day, and we were both wounded.  Poor Casalverde lost his head and did a foolish thing, and that cold-blooded villain Spicca killed him in consequence.  It seems to me that there has been enough blood spilled in our quarrel.  I am prepared to leave him alone so far as I am concerned.  But for you it would be different.  I could do something worse than kill him if I chose.”