"It is folly." She glanced around the room. "You will admit that it is folly," she insisted.
I bowed my head. "It is folly, if you choose to call it so."
"I have been wanting to tell you . . . I believe you to be a good man. Oh yes, the fault is with me! This morning—you remember what your father said? Well, I listened, and the truth was made clear to me, that I cannot give you the like of such love—or the like of any such as a woman ought to give, who—who—"
"Say no more," said I, as gently as might be. "I understand."
"Ah, that is kind of you!" She caught at the admission eagerly.
"It is not that I doubted; I see now that some men are not vile.
But until I can feel it, what use is being convinced?"
She paused, "Moreover, to-night I go on a journey."
"And I, too," said I, meeting her eyes firmly. "To Genoa, is it not?"
"You guessed it? . . . But you have no right—" she faltered.
I laughed. "But excuse me, my wife, I have all the right in the world. At what hour will Marc'antonio be ready with the boat?"