"This is the second time in my life that I have spoken to the Contessina," Lamberti answered. "The first time I ever saw her was at your aunt's house."
Guido had never doubted the word of Lamberto Lamberti, but he could not doubt the evidence of his own senses either, and he had watched Cecilia's face. It seemed utterly impossible that she should look as she had looked just now, unless there were some very grave matter between her and Lamberti. All sorts of horrible suspicions clouded Guido's brain, all sorts of reasons why Lamberti should lie to him, this once, this only time. Yet he spoke quietly enough.
"It is very strange that two people should behave as you and she do, when you meet, if you have only met twice. It is past my comprehension."
"It is very strange," Lamberti repeated.
"So strange," said Guido, "that it is very hard to believe. You are asking a great deal of me."
"I have asked nothing, my friend. You put a question to me,—a reasonable question, I admit,—and I have answered you with the truth. I have never touched that young lady's hand, I have only spoken with her twice in my life, and not alone on either occasion. I did not wish to come here to-day, but you practically forced me to."
"You did not wish to come, because you knew what would happen," Guido answered coldly.
"How could I know?"
"That is the question. But you did know, and until you are willing to explain to me how you knew it——"
He stopped short and looked hard at Lamberti, as if the latter must understand the rest. His usually gentle and thoughtful face was as hard and stern as stone. Until lately his friendship for Lamberti had been by far the strongest and most lasting affection of his life. The thought that it was to be suddenly broken and ended by an atrocious deception was hard to bear.