"Regina," said Antonio, "you must explain to me what you are intending to do."
"You know already."
"I don't. I don't understand. Your last letter was even worse and uglier than the first. I am not going to reproach you—as you say, it would be useless; but another man in my place—well, never mind! You have told me more than a hundred times that I don't understand you. Now, to show you at least my good-will, I ask you to explain."
"But didn't I write it?" she cried, half humble, half pettish. "I wrote, 'It all depends upon you.'"
"Do you mean you will come back with me to Rome?"
"Yes."
"Oh, very well. I am quite ready to forget all that has taken place. But now I must know one thing more. Why have you given up your idea so soon? I say idea, not caprice, because it has seemed to me, and seems still, a very serious matter."
"How can I tell? Are we able to explain our ideas or caprices, or whatever you choose to call them? Have you never contradicted yourself? One thinks one way to-day, another to-morrow. Are we masters of ourselves? You said a minute ago, 'If I were another man.' I understood what you meant; that if you had been another man you would have ill-treated, insulted me. But, on the contrary, you are very kind—perhaps kinder than before. Can you explain to yourself why, instead of hating me for the trick I have played you, you care for me perhaps more than before?"
She spoke not entirely of conviction; but she wished to suggest to Antonio the line he had better take. She believed she had succeeded, for he became thoughtful as if repeating her questions to himself, and presently said with a slight smile—