A long silence followed, then the dialogue was once more resumed, but the two voices were cold and sad as if now some dead thing lay in the heart of either.
"Do you realise," said Franco, "that I should be dishonouring my own father?"
"In what way?"
"In the first place by the outrageous nature of the terms in which the document is couched, and then by implying my father's complicity in the suppression of the will. But then you don't understand these matters. And, after all, what do you care?"
"But there is no need to speak of suppression. It is quite possible the will was never found."
Another silence. Even the tallow candle that was burning on the table had a lugubrious look. Luisa rose, picked up the great-grandfather's boot, and prepared to begin her work. Franco went to the window and pressed his forehead against the glass. He remained there some time, absorbed in contemplation of the shadows of night. Presently he said softly, without turning his head:
"Never, never has your soul been wholly mine."
No answer.
Then he faced about and asked his wife in a tone entirely free from anger, and with that ineffable gentleness which was his in moments of moral or physical depression, if, since the very beginning of their union, he had ever failed her in any way. An almost inaudible "No" was the answer.
"Then perhaps you did not love me as I believed?"