"But there is love in the world, somewhere," said Francesca, gently.
"Yes—and in hell! But not in heaven—where you will be."
Francesca sighed unconsciously, and looked long away towards the great windows at the end of the hall. Reanda gathered up his palette and brushes with a steadier hand. His anger had not spent itself, but it made him suddenly strong, and the outburst had relieved him, though it was certain that it would be followed by a reaction of profound despondency.
All at once he came close to Francesca. She looked up, half startled by his sudden movement.
"At least it is true—this one thing," he said. "I can count upon you."
"Yes. You can count upon me," she answered, gazing into his eyes.
He did not move. The one hand held his palette, the other hung free by his side. All at once she took it in hers, still looking up into his eyes.
"I am very fond of you," she said earnestly. "You can count upon me as long as we two live."
"God bless you," he said, more quietly than he had spoken yet, and his hand pressed hers a little.
There could be no harm in saying as much as that, she thought, when it was so true and so simply said. It was all she could ever say to him, or to herself, and there was no reason why she should not say it. He would not misunderstand her. No man could have mistaken the innocence that was the life and light of her clear eyes. She was glad she had said it, and she was glad long afterwards that she had said it on that day, quietly, when no one could hear them in the great still hall.