"Why did you write that letter?" he asked, after a moment's pause.
Cecilia looked up quickly, surprised by the direct question, and then gazed into his face in silence. She had confessed to herself that she loved him, but she had not known how much, nor what it would mean to sit so near him and hear him asking the question that had only one answer. His eyes were steady and brave, when she looked at them, but not so hard as she had expected. In earlier days she had always felt that they could command her and even send her to sleep if he chose, but she did not feel that now. The question had been asked suddenly and directly, but not harshly. She did not answer it.
"Did Guido show you my letter?" she asked in a low voice.
But she was sure of the reply before it came.
"No. He told me that you broke off your engagement with him very suddenly. I suppose you have done so because you think you do not care for him enough to marry him, but he did not tell me so. Is that it?"
Cecilia nodded quickly, folded her hands nervously upon her knees, and looked across the room.
"Yes," she said. "That is it. I do not love him."
"Yet you like him very much," Lamberti answered. "I have often seen you together, and I am sure you do."
"I am very fond of him. If I had not been foolish, he might always have been my best friend."
"I do not think you were foolish. You could hardly do better than marry your best friend, I think. He is mine, and I know what his friendship is worth. You will find out, as I have, that if he is sometimes indolent and slow to make up his mind, he never changes afterwards. You may be separated from him for a year or two, but you will find him always the same when you meet him again, always gentle, always true, always the most honourable of men."