"For you—was it not better? For me—what does it matter? Should I be happier anywhere else?"
"Have I driven you from your home, Giovanni?" asked Corona, with a strange look in her dark eyes. Her voice trembled.
"No, not you," he answered, turning away and beginning to walk up and down by the force of the habit he had acquired during the last two or three days. "Not you," he repeated more than once in a bitter tone.
Corona sank down upon the chair he had left, and buried her face in her hands, as though overcome by a great and sudden grief. Giovanni stopped before her and looked at her, not clearly understanding what was passing in her mind.
"Why are you so sorry?" he asked. "Has a separation of a few days changed you? Are you sorry for me?"
"Why did you come here?" she exclaimed, instead of answering his question. "Why here, of all places?"
"I had no choice. The cardinal decided the matter for me."
"The cardinal? Why do you confide in him? You never did before. I may be wrong, but I do not trust him, kind as he has always been. If you wanted advice, you might have gone to Padre Filippo—"
"Advice? I do not understand you, Corona."
"Did you not go to the cardinal and tell him that you were very unhappy and wanted to make a retreat in some quiet place where nobody could find you? And did he not advise you to come here, promising to keep your secret, and authorising you to stay as long as you pleased? That is what he told me."