‘It is not easy to tell you,’ Maria answered. ‘I am in great perplexity and I need advice—the advice of a good man—of a friend—of some one who knows the world.’
‘Yes,’ said Monsignor Saracinesca, folding his transparent hands and looking at one of Melozzo da Forlì’s inspired angels on the opposite wall. ‘So far as you care to trust me as a friend and one who knows something of the world, I will do my best. But let us understand each other before you say anything more. This is not in any way a confession, I suppose. You wish to ask my advice in confidence. Is that it?’
‘Yes, yes! That is what it is!’
‘And you come to me as to a friend, rather than as to a priest?’
‘Oh, yes! Much more.’
‘And you trust me, merely as you would trust a friend, and without the intention of putting me under a sacred obligation of silence, by which the life and welfare of any one might hereafter be endangered. Is that what you mean?’
‘Yes, distinctly. But that will never happen. I mean that no one’s life could ever be in danger by your not telling. At least, I cannot see how.’
‘Strange things happen,’ said Don Ippolito, still looking at the angel. ‘And now that we understand each other about that, I am ready. What is the difficulty?’
Maria rested her elbow on the corner of the big table and shaded her eyes with her hand for a moment. It was not easy to tell such a story as hers.
‘Do you know anything about my past life?’ she began timidly, and glancing sideways at him.