‘It may make a difference to you to know it. It ought to please you. Do you remember that Ippolito and I dined with you the night before your husband fell ill?’
‘Indeed I do!’
‘And they argued, as usual, but afterwards they talked in a low voice.’
‘I remember that too.’
‘Poor Diego was talking about you. He said that whatever trouble there had ever been between you was forgotten and forgiven. He said that you had made him absolutely and unspeakably happy ever since he had come back to you, and that he wished he could have made your life such a heaven as you had made his; that his unfortunate temper must have often irritated you and hurt you, but that he believed you had always forgiven him.’
Maria’s eyes filled with tears, as they sometimes did.
‘Thank you for telling me that,’ she said. ‘It does make a difference.’
‘Ippolito never saw him conscious again. Those must have been almost the last words he ever spoke.’
‘Almost,’ echoed Maria, remembering that night.