"Am I—so bad?" she pleaded, with tears in her eyes.
"I don't know whether you are good or bad. I don't waste my time trying to make such distinctions. I only know that he's a fine young fellow, handsome and rich, who loves you, and that you, without a single earthly reason, refuse him. I know that he is anxious to marry you, in spite of the fact that you don't care for him, in spite of—pass me the word—in spite of the extravagance of your character. Excuse me, dear Anna, but I want to ask you whether you think it will be easy to find another husband?"
"How can I tell?"
"I ask, do you think another will be likely to ask you for your hand?"
"Excuse me. I don't understand," she said, turning pale, because she did understand.
"My dear, have you forgotten the past?"
"What past?" she demanded, proudly.
"Nothing but a flight from home, my dear. A day passed at Pompeii with a young man. Nothing else."
"Oh, heavens!" she sobbed, burying her face in her hands.
"Don't cry out, Anna. This is a serious moment. You must control yourself. Remember that what you did respectable girls don't do. Luigi Caracciolo knows nothing about it, or nothing definite. But a man who did know about it, wouldn't marry you, my dear. It's hard; it's cruel; but it's my duty to tell it to you. Marry him; marry Luigi. That is the advice of a friend, of a true friend, Anna. Marry Luigi Caracciolo."