"You would be doing the kindest thing that you ever did in your life, if you could bring yourself to say that you thought I did it for the best."
He feels that if he submits his eyes to hers, his will must go with them; he will have no power left of dissent from any request she may choose to make; so he still stares over her head at a screen which hides the doorless entrance to the third room of the little suite. One leaf, folded back, gives a peep through the little chamber, through its deep-arched window to where a date-palm stands up straight against the sea.
"I could not possibly say that unless I knew the circumstances of the case," he answers judicially.
He hears a low sigh, not of impatience, but of melancholy acquiescence.
"Then you must go on thinking ill of me."
There is such a depth of dejection, as well as such an unalterable sweetness, in her voice, that the words of little Prince Arthur, addressed to Hubert, flash upon his mind:
"If Heaven be pleased that you should use me ill,
Why, then you must!"
After all, what power in earth or sky has appointed him her executioner?
"I do not wish to think ill of you," he answers sadly. "Good heavens! do I need to tell you that? I have tried all along to keep myself from judging you; but I should not be human—you must know that I should not be human—if I did not ask myself why you did it."
"Why I left Florence?"