“Come, Marco; come.”
Still leading him by the hand she made him cross the ante-room, the drawing-room, the little drawing-room, and the study, and did not stop till she was with him in the bedroom with its closed green shutters, whence entered the perfumes from a very tiny conservatory. Once within, she closed the door with a tired gesture. They were alone. She fixed him with her eyes right into his, placing her two hands on his shoulders, dominating him with her height. And to him never had her face seemed so beautiful and so ardent.
“Do you love me, Marco?”
“I love you,” he said with tender sweetness.
“You mustn’t say it so. Better, better. Do you love me?”
“I love you,” he replied, disturbed.
“As once upon a time, you must say, as once upon a time.”
“I love you, Maria,” he replied, still more disturbed.
“Do you love me as at first? Reply without hesitating, without thinking—as at first?”
Regarding him, scorching him with her glance, with the pressure of her white and firm hands on his shoulders, she subjugated him.