him all, everything would be explained, and he would doubtless see that all this damning evidence was no more than the natural outward appearance of perfectly harmless circumstances of which he knew nothing.  Ay, but if they were harmless, why should she implore him to ask no questions?  Because the honour of some one else was concerned, of course.  But was he, Giovanni Saracinesca, not to be trusted with the keeping of that other person’s honour as well as Corona herself?  Had they ever had secrets from each other?  Would it not have been simpler for her to trust him with the story, if she was innocent, than to be silent and ask him to trust her motives?  Far simpler, of course.  And then, if only a third person’s feelings were at stake, what necessity had there been for such a sentimental parting?  She had given Gouache a blessing very like the one she had given Giovanni.  Worst of all, were not the circumstances the same, the very same?

Giovanni remembered the Frangipani ball.  At that time Corona was married to Astrardente, who had died a few days afterwards.  Giovanni had that night told Corona that he loved her, in very passionate terms.  She had silenced him, and he had behaved like a gentleman, for he had asked her pardon for what he had done.  She had forgiven him, and to show that she bore no malice had spoken a kind of benediction—­a prayer that all might be well with him.  He knew now that she had loved him even then when she repelled him.

And now that she was married to Giovanni, another had come, and had talked with her, and exchanged words in a low tone even as he himself had once done.  And she had treated this man roughly before her husband, and presently afterwards had allowed him to kiss her hand and had sent him away saying that she forgave him—­just as she had formerly forgiven Giovanni—­and praying that all blessings might go with him.  Why was it not possible that she loved this man, too?  Because she was so grandly beautiful, and dark and calm, and had such a noble fearlessness in her eyes?  Other women had been beautiful and had deceived wiser men than Giovanni, and had fallen.  Beauty was no argument for the defence, nor brave eyes, nor the magnificent dignity of movement and speech—­nor words either, for that matter.

Suspense was agony, and yet a twofold horror seemed the only issue, the one inevitable, the other possible.  First, to accuse this woman whom he loved so dearly, and then, perhaps, to hear her deny the charge boldly and yet refuse all explanation.  Once more Giovanni rose from his deep chair and paced his room with regular strides, though he scarcely saw the carpet under his feet, nor realised any longer where he was.  At last he stopped and laughed.  The sound was strange and false, as when a man tries to be merry who feels no mirth.