“About us.”
“What was it?”
“I don’t like to tell you.”
“I can guess. They said you were in love with me. Was that it?”
I tried to rise, but she held me down with her hands upon my shoulders. Each time I bent back my head to answer, she stooped lower above me. Her breath was in my hair. The gold flashed up in the depths of her eyes. Her voice broke into slow laughter. With her lips touching my forehead she whispered, “And what if they did say it?”
For a moment we gazed at one another. I hoped and I dreaded. By one slight action of assent, the quiver of an eye-lid or the raising of a hand, I would thrust Vi from me forever. A marriage with Fiesole would at least be correct—approved by society; but I should have to sin against Vi to get it—to sin against a love which was half-sinful.
Fiesole straightened. The tension relaxed. She placed her hand on my head, ruffling my hair. As though imitating the thrush, a peal of silver laughter fell from her lips. “Oh, Dante, Dante! You are just as you were. You’re still afraid of girls.”
I rose to my feet. She was again a coquette, rash, luring attack, but always on the defensive. I gained control of myself as my pity ebbed. I had been mistaken in thinking I had hurt her. I should have known she was play-acting. And yet I doubted.
We walked over to the lounge by the window. I seated myself beside her, confident now of my power to restrain myself. “I was afraid for you—not of you.”
“Why should you be afraid for me when I’m not afraid for myself? No, Dante, it wasn’t that. You’re afraid of yourself. Someone told you long, long ago, when you were quite little, that it was naughty to flirt. You’ve never forgotten it, and each time you begin to feel a bit happy you believe you’re going to do something bad. So you’ve put your heart to bed, and you’ve locked the door, and you’ve drawn the curtains. You play nurse to it, and every time it stirs, you tiptoe to the door to see that the key is turned, and to the windows to see that they’re properly bolted. I’ll tell you what’s the matter with you, Dante. I stole along the passage and hammered on the door of your heart’s bedroom, and your heart half-roused and called, ‘Nurse.’ There!”