"No! Her career will be ruined. And all this is the price she will haf to pay for her—trust! Give it up, give it up—set her free."
Max flung himself into a chair, leaning his arms wearily on the table, and stared straight in front of him, his eyes dark with pain.
"I can't," he said, in a low voice. "Not now. I meant to—I tried to—but now she has promised and I can't let her go. Good God, Maestro!"—a sudden ring of passion in his tones—"Must I give up everything? Am I to have nothing in the world? Always to be a tool and never live an individual man's life of my own?"
Baroni's face softened a little.
"One cannot escape one's destiny," he said sadly. "Che sarà sarà. . . . But you can spare—her. Tell her the truth, and in common fairness let her judge for herself—not rush blindfold into such a web."
Max shook his head.
"You know I can't do that," he replied quietly.
Baroni threw out his arms in despair.
"I would tell her the whole truth myself—but for the memory of one who is dead." Sudden tears dimmed the fierce old eyes. "For the sake of that sainted martyr—martyr in life as well as in death—I will hold my peace."
A half-sad, half-humorous smile flashed across Errington's face.