“Was it true?” I asked, rendered brutally direct by a queer pain I felt as a result of my thinking.
She looked up into my face so sadly and wistfully that my suspicions fell from me upon the instant, and I reddened from shame at having harboured them.
“Agostino!” she cried, such a poor little cry of pain that I set my teeth hard and bowed my head in self-contempt.
Then I looked at her again.
“Yet the foul suspicion of that lout is shared by your husband himself,” said I.
“The foul suspicion—yes,” she answered, her eyes downcast, her cheeks faintly tinted. And then, quite suddenly, she moved forward. “Come,” she bade me. “You are being foolish.”
“I shall be mad,” said I, “ere I have done with this.” And I fell into step again beside her. “If I could not avenge you there, I can avenge you here.” And I pointed to the house. “I can smite this rumour at its foulest point.”
Her hand fell on my arm. “What would you do?” she cried.
“Bid your husband retract and sue to you for pardon, or else tear out his lying throat,” I answered, for I was in a great rage by now.
She stiffened suddenly. “You go too fast, Messer Agostino,” said she. “And you are over-eager to enter into that which does not concern you. I do not know that I have given you the right to demand of my husband reason of the manner in which he deals with me. It is a thing that touches only my husband and myself.”