“Don’t pity me, Marco; I don’t like you to pity me.”
“Does everything offend you, then, Maria?” he exclaimed, surprised.
“Pity above everything offends me—every one’s pity; but your pity offers me an atrocious offence.”
“You are very proud, Maria.”
“Very, Marco.”
“Will nothing ever conquer this fatal pride of yours?”
“Nothing, no one. No one except myself, and not even I myself.”
“Pride causes weeping, Maria.”
“It is true; but very seldom have human eyes seen my tears,” she said conclusively.
He felt that evening, as on so many others, that never more would they find, if not the flame of passion, even the penetrating sweetness of loving companionship. The beautiful and beloved woman was near him. They were together, alone and free, alone and masters of every movement of the mind and action of the body; but some mysterious obstacle had been interposed between them, whence all beauty, love, liberty and consent were in vain.