"I should think he would have more decency than to pursue the Duchessa in the first month of her mourning," answered Del Ferice, resting one arm upon the piano, and supporting his pale face with his hand as he watched Donna Tullia's fingers move upon the keys.
"Why? He does not care what people say—why should he? He will marry her when the year is out. Why should he care?"
"He can never marry her unless I choose to allow it," said Del Ferice, quietly.
"So you told me the other night," returned Donna Tullia. "But you will allow him, of course. Besides, you could not stop it, after all. I do not believe that you could." She leaned far back in her chair, her hands resting upon the keys without striking them, and she looked at Del Ferice with a sweet smile. There was a moment's pause.
"I have decided to tell you something," he said at last, "upon one condition."
"Why make conditions?" asked Donna Tullia, trying to conceal her excitement.
"Only one, that of secrecy. Will you promise never to mention what I am going to tell you without previously consulting me? I do not mean a common promise; I mean it to be an oath." He spoke very earnestly. "This is a very serious matter. We are playing with fire and with life and death. You must give me some guarantee that you will be secret."
His manner impressed Donna Tullia; she had never seen him so much in earnest in her life.
"I will promise in any way you please," she said.
"Then say this," he answered. "Say, 'I swear and solemnly bind myself that I will faithfully keep the secret about to be committed to me; and that if I fail to keep it I will atone by immediately marrying Ugo del Ferice—'"