Maria had before her the man she loved, with all his attractive appearance, with all the charms of youth and health, with all his seductiveness of mind, and this man was there in the name of an invincible transport, and ought to be and could be hers in every hour of her life. Yet nothing came of it, just as if a wanton, and deliberately wanton, hand were destroying this flower and fruit of love.
Of the two, Marco Fiore seemed to be yielding feebly to this obstacle which was intruding itself between them: he was passive, a little morbid, and easily resigned. Maria Guasco, however, proud and combative, was fighting and endeavouring to conquer the infamous hand which was plucking in the dark all the roses of their passion. She, on the other hand, allowed herself to be conquered only at the last.
“Why don’t you go now?” she said anxiously.
“Do you believe I ought to?”
“Yes, it is nearly eleven. If you want to return here afterwards,” she added, “you will make me wait up rather too long.”
He raised his eyebrows as if he experienced some difficulty in breathing or speaking.
“Well ... afterwards I should like to return home with Beatrice and mamma.”
“Ah!” she exclaimed at this blow, without further observation.
They became silent. He bent his head with that aspect of accustoming himself to a thing which had to occur, which had been usual with him for some time. She, instead, raised hers with that ever renascent pride which scorched her soul, and at last succeeded in smiling.
“But what will you do afterwards at home, Marco?”