"You knew I was poor! I confessed it to you. I hid nothing from you."
"That is true," she declared at once. "I knew that: you told me loyally. I loved you and esteemed you for your loyalty. Only I made a mistake."
"You made a mistake?"
"Yes; I made a mistake in believing that a rich woman could marry a poor man without being very unhappy afterwards. It is a great mistake. I beg your pardon, Vittorio, for my mistake. You are suffering for it, and I want you to pardon me."
"Ah, but you don't suffer; it doesn't matter at all to you," he exclaimed, very bitterly.
"You deceive yourself, Vittorio," she added, with some sweetness. "I suffer as I know how to, as I can. But it is better to suffer a brief, great sorrow, than to suffer for the whole of one's life."
"But why should we suffer together, Mabel?"
"Because of the money, dear."
"I never thought of that when I loved you."
"I know that," she replied, taking his hand and pressing it, "but people don't. You have been seeking for a large dowry for some years; you wanted to make a great marriage. People in America and Italy will never believe you to be disinterested."