"I would rather not," he murmured weakly.
"You must be stronger, Vittorio."
"I have been strong," he replied, opening his arms. "You must not ask more from me."
"You must not suffer, darling."
"I love you and suffer in loving you, Mabel," he said, simply and sadly.
"I hope that will soon end."
"Eh, not so soon, not so soon," he added, with melancholy and bitterness.
"You will return to your mother, won't you?"
"Later on I shall go. I must go there to explain everything," he murmured.
Mabel, after having conquered him, experienced an ever broader sympathy, an ever greater pity for him. Every word in which he vainly poured forth his sorrow, the undoing, the delusion of all his hopes, struck her good and loyal heart more than all the cries of revolt which had rushed from his lips. After having conquered him, after being freed, she became his friend, his sister, loving and sad, suffering in seeing him suffer, desiring that he should suffer no more. But the man who had given all his measure, who had accomplished his great act of renunciation, could no longer be consoled by her; she had lost the sentimental power of comforting him. But she tried again: