She sat in the place which he had left, and there, plaintively, in a low voice, she explained the past. In that time she lived in a world horribly commonplace. She had yielded, but she had regretted at once. If he but knew the sadness of her life he would not be jealous. He would pity her. She shook her head and said, looking at him through the falling locks of her hair:
“I am talking to you of another woman. There is nothing in common between that woman and me. I exist only since I have known you, since I have belonged to you.”
He walked about the room madly. He laughed painfully.
“Yes; but while you loved me, the other woman—the one who was not you?”
She looked at him indignantly:
“Can you believe—”
“Did you not see him again at Florence? Did you not accompany him to the station?”
She told him that he had come to Italy to find her; that she had seen him; that she had broken with him; that he had gone, irritated, and that since then he was trying to win her back; but that she had not even paid any attention to him.
“My beloved, I see, I know, only you in the world.” He shook his head.
“I do not believe you.”