"I repeat that you must have a very strong reason indeed for not waiting a couple of months. In that time you may learn to like Guido better—or he may learn to love you less."
"He may change," Cecilia said, not resenting the rather rough speech; "I never shall."
Lamberti fixed his eyes on her.
"There is only one reason that could make you so sure about yourself," he said. "If I thought you were like most women, I would tell you that you were heartless, faithless, and cruel, as well as capricious, and that you were risking a man's life and soul for a scruple of conscience, or, worse than that, for a passing fancy."
"Oh, please do not say such things of me!" She spoke in great distress.
"I do not. I know that you are honest and true, and are trying to do right, but that you have made a mistake which you can mend if you will. Take my advice. There is only one possible reason to account for what you have done. You think that you love some other man better than d'Este."
Cecilia started and stared at him.
"You said that Guido did not show you my letter!" She was offended as well as distressed now.
"No; he did not. But I will not pretend that I have guessed your secret. As Guido lay on his bed talking to me, I was staring at a crumpled sheet of a letter that lay on the floor. Before I knew what I was looking at I had read four words: 'I love another man.' When I realised that I ought not to have seen even that much, I knew, of course, that it was your writing. You see how much I know. All the same, if you were not what I know you are, I would call you a heartless flirt to your face."
Again he looked at her steadily, but she said nothing.