There was no mistaking her tone.
‘That is enough,’ he answered. ‘No one can ask more than that of you.’
A short silence followed.
‘Is that all, my dear?’ he asked presently in a kind tone.
‘No. There is more, and it will be harder to understand, perhaps, though it will be easier to say. I found him greatly changed after all those years; changed for the better, I mean. Then I let myself believe that we could love each other innocently for the rest of our lives, and do no wrong, not even to you.’
‘Not even to me.’ There was a sudden bitterness in Montalto’s voice as he repeated the words.
‘I did not think you loved me still, Diego. You had not forgiven me then. I felt that my only duty to you was to bear your name without more reproach, and I did that. There was not a word breathed against me in those years. You know how I lived, and I had no secret; what the world knew was all there was to be known. But when he came back I began to dream of something innocent—that seemed possible.’
The last sentence choked her a little. Montalto turned to her.
‘Do you regret your dream now? Do you wish it back?’ he asked sorrowfully.