‘No, Diego,’ she said at once, ‘I did nothing that I thought wrong or felt ashamed of.’
He turned to the fire with a sigh of relief, but did not speak.
‘He came to Rome a month or more before your mother died,’ she continued. ‘I had not seen him since—since that time—you know—long before you first went to your mother. We met by accident. They had persuaded me to take one of the booths at Kermess in the Villa, and he appeared quite unexpectedly. You believe me, don’t you, Diego?’
Montalto turned to her and spoke very slowly.
‘I shall believe every word you tell me. You never told me an untruth in your life.’
‘No, never. But I thank you for trusting me now. It is not every man that would. After he came back’—she was careful not to mention Castiglione’s name after the first time—‘I saw him again and again; I thought I hated him, Diego, but I loved him still.’
It was hard to say, but perhaps it was harder to hear. Yet her husband had never known how she had deceived herself into believing that she hated Castiglione, and he did not turn upon her as she had expected. His head sank a little, but he was still watching the burning logs.
‘Do you love him now?’ he asked with an effort.
‘I have promised on my knees and before God to tear every thought of him from my heart.’