Angela sighed wearily.
"You do not care?" queried Cyrillon. "Neither anathema nor lie has any effect on you?"
She raised her left hand and looked dreamily at the circlet of rubies on it—Florian Varillo's betrothal ring.
"I care for nothing," she said slowly. "Nothing—now he is gone!"
A bitter pang shot through Cyrillon's heart. He was quite silent.
Presently she turned her eyes wistfully towards him.
"Please do not think me ungrateful for all your kindness!—but—I cannot forget!"
"Dear Donna Sovrani, may I speak to you fully and, frankly—as a friend? May I do so without offence?"
She looked at him and saw how pale he was, how his lips trembled, and the consciousness that he was unhappy moved her to a faint sense of compunction.
"Of course you may!" she answered gently. "I know you do not hate me."
"Hate you!" Cyrillon paused, his eyes softening with a great tenderness as they rested upon her. "Who could hate you?"