"I wish she could," answered Lamberti, closing his teeth on the words sharply. "But you will see her, will you not?" he asked, after a pause. "You will not accept such a dismissal without telling her what you think of her?"
"Why should I tell her anything? If I have not succeeded in making her love me yet, I shall never succeed at all! It is better to bear it as if I had never expected anything else."
"Is there any reason why a woman should be allowed to do with impunity what one man would shoot another for doing?" asked Lamberti, roughly. "She has changed her mind once, she can be made to change it again."
The more he thought of what had happened the angrier he grew, and his jealousy against the unknown man who had caused the trouble was boiling up.
Guido caught at the straw like a drowning man, and raised himself on his elbow.
"Do you really think that she may change her mind? That this is only a caprice?"
"I should not wonder. All women have caprices now and then. It is a fit of conscience. She is not quite sure that she likes you enough to marry you, and you have said something that jarred on her, perhaps. If you had been able to go and see her this morning, she would have begun by being very brave, but in five minutes she would have been as ready to marry you as ever. I will wager anything that when she had written that letter she sent it off as soon as possible for fear that she should not send it at all!"
"What do you advise me to do?" asked Guido, his hopes rising. "I believe you understand women better than I do, after all!"
"They are only human animals, like ourselves," Lamberti answered carelessly. "The chief difference is that they do all the things that we are sometimes inclined to do, but should be ashamed of doing."
"I daresay. But I want your advice."