They sat down on one of the benches, and Valdobia folded his arms, then turned and leaned his elbow on the back of the seat and his head on his hand.
“I am not quite in the mood for love-making,” he said, “after the news I have received; but I can’t go without letting you know why I followed you to Genoa—without some sort of an understanding.”
Ora looked at him out of the corner of her eye. His face was set and determined, but she concluded that he was not the man to be dangerous when grieving for his mother.
“What is it?” she asked softly. “I know, of course, that you—like me.”
“I love you, and I want to marry you. I wish you to divorce your husband and marry me. Don’t give me your final answer now,” he continued, as Ora interrupted him. “It is not a question to decide in a moment. But while I am gone think it over. You do not love your husband. I know all your arguments from your friend. She made them when I first gave her my confidence. They don’t weigh with me for a moment. You will never spend your life with that man, good as he may be. As for obligations, you discharged them long ago. I can make you happy, and I believe that you know I can.”
“I don’t know.” Ora, stunned for a moment, felt thrilled and breathless. “Oh, I don’t know!”
“I have begun to feel sure that you have loved another man, or fancied that you loved him. Would it be possible for you to marry him if you divorced your husband?”
Ora hesitated, then answered, “No.”
“Why is he not your lover?”
“That would be impossible, even if I would do such a thing, and you know I would not.”