She led the way to her own part of the house, to the large room which served her as dressing-room and boudoir. After all, as he had said, he was a priest and an old man. She made him sit down beside her fire, in her own low easy-chair, for he looked thin and cold, she thought, and she felt charitably disposed towards him, not dreaming what he was going to say, and supposing that he had exaggerated the importance of his errand.
"Princess—" he began, and paused, choosing his words.
"Do not call me that," she said. "Nobody does. Call me Donna Veronica."
"I am old fashioned," he answered. "You are my princess and feudal liege lady. Never mind. It would be better for you if you were in your own castle of Muro, with your own people about you, though it is a gloomy place, and the scenery is sad. You would be safe there."
"You speak as though we lived in the Middle Ages," said the young girl, with a faint smile.
"We live in the dark ages. You are not safe here. Do you know why my dear friend Bosio killed himself last night?"
"It was an accident! It must have been an accident!" Veronica's face was very sorrowful again.
"I wish it had been," said Don Teodoro. "They will say so, in charity, in order to give him Christian burial. But it was not an accident, princess. My friend told me all the truth, the day before yesterday. It is very terrible. He killed himself in order not to be bound to marry you."
The round, silver-rimmed spectacles turned slowly to her face.
"In order not to marry me! You must be mad, Don Teodoro! Or you do not know the truth—that is it! You do not know the truth. It was only last night that he asked me to marry him—that is—it had been my aunt who had asked me, and I gave him the answer."