"I am asking you, Myra. As yet I have only a suspicion. I was wondering whether you could not give me confirmation."
"Don't play with me any longer, Commandatore," she pleaded. "I am not a child."
He seemed to be moved by the appeal, for he answered with animation, "Indeed, Myra, you do me an injustice. I know nothing certainly, I only suspect; and I am blaming you, Myra, you—for allowing Guy to be taken from us."
She gazed at him stupidly, while she repeated his words, "You are blaming me?"
"Yes," he answered, "I am blaming you. You are young, you are beautiful. Day by day you have been in Guy's company, and yet you have allowed him to be stolen away from us. If you have not driven him away, at least you have made no effort to keep him."
Myra was silent. Hora was speaking vehemently and, though she had learned to doubt his every word, yet it was difficult to doubt his sincerity now. The man continued:
"You have told me you love. I doubt if you can know the meaning of the word. Love does not sit with hands folded idly while the beloved is stolen away. Love fights for existence against all rivals. It is insistent. It will not be denied. Beauty is its weapon. The knowledge of the primitive instinct of a man to a maid is a sufficient education in strategy. Are you such a fool that you did not see that it was in your power to have kept Guy at your will?"
Myra was forced to protest. "To thrust myself on Guy. To be repulsed—the shame of it, Commandatore," she answered weakly.
"Bah!" replied Hora. "A man will fight for a woman, and take no shame in his repulse. Why not a woman for a man? Are you of such ordinary stuff, such common fustian, that you will tamely stand by while some milk-and-water chit takes your natural mate from you? You had better go back to the gutter, if so."
There was scorn in his words, scorn in the tone of his voice, and if Hora intended to rouse the woman's spirit the words did not fail of their purpose. Though she winced under the sting of his speech, her eyes flashed fire again.