Would any one believe that such language was innocent? Would any one but her husband have believed her when she said it was? Giuliana Parenzo had told her plainly that such a relation as she had dreamt of was impossible; so had Monsignor Saracinesca; and the implacable Capuchin had refused his absolution so long as she even entertained the thought of it. The world would most assuredly not believe that she had been without fault during those weeks; it was both futile and foolish to hope that it would.
The day passed as she had expected. She met Montalto at luncheon, and Leone was at the table as usual, so that it was impossible to allude to the subject. Her husband looked at the handsome boy affectionately from time to time, and then at Maria, and talked of little matters; Leone chattered of horses, and Maria encouraged him, because she herself could find so little to say.
‘Why don’t you have a racing stable, papa?’ he asked at last. ‘You know quite enough about it, I’m sure; and when I’m a little bigger I could be your jockey! It would be such fun, and between us we should win everything!’
Maria laughed a little. Her husband smiled kindly and shook his head.
‘My dear little man,’ he said, ‘when you are the master of Montalto and have a boy of your own, you may keep a racing stable if you like and let your son ride races for you. But I am not going to encourage you to break your neck! Do you remember that poor lad who was killed at the Capannelle?’
‘Yes,’ Leone answered, growing suddenly grave, for he had been taken to the races for the first time on that day, and had seen the fatal accident. ‘But I shall never be the master, papa, you know.’
Maria’s face changed, and she looked down at her plate.
‘Why not?’ asked her husband, smiling again.
‘Because I couldn’t be, unless you were dead. And that’s ridiculous!’
‘We shall see, my boy, we shall see,’ answered Montalto. ‘At all events we need not talk about dying yet. You are quite right about that.’