"Yes, Lumley."
"Would it be a great trouble to you if—some day—I asked you to receive her as a daughter?"
She stood quite still and shivered. Her face was suddenly of a marble pallor.
"You—you mean this, Lumley?"
"I mean that I care for her, mother."
"You have not—spoken to her?"
"No. I should not have said anything to you yet, only it pained me to think that there was anything between you—any aversion, I mean. I thought that if you knew, you would try and overcome it."
"I cannot!"
"Mother!"
"Lumley, I cannot! She looks at me out of his eyes; she speaks to me with his voice; something tells me that she bears in her heart his hate toward me. You do not know these Marionis! They are one in hate and one in love; unchanging and hard as the rocks on which their castle frowns. Even Margharita herself, in the old days, never forgave me for sending Leonardo to prison, although I saved her lover's life as well as mine. Lumley, you have said nothing to her?"