“Have you written to her?” he asked bruskly.
“No, certainly not. Pray do not be offended. I have not allowed myself so great a privilege. Only to you—”
“But it is impossible, not to be thought of—impossible!” interrupted Cassio, striking as he spoke the paper which was lying on his knees, till it rustled.
“It seems impossible, but it is true; and though it may be strange, it is not the first time it has happened. My demand is serious, Signore Longino. Can your sister accept it?”
“What demand?”
The other thought a moment. “This young man is laboring under too much excitement; I was wrong to speak to him so suddenly. He is not in a state to hear it.”
“My proposal of marriage.”
Cassio did not reply at once. By a terrible effort he controlled himself. When the mist cleared from his eyes he turned and looked at the Direttore, and beheld him as in the past, pale, suffering, and ugly and into his terrible pain there fell one drop of comfort—she would not accept him, he felt sure.
“But,” he asked, “have you reflected what you are doing? Have you written to my country and obtained information? In such cases—”
“I have not written. What would be the good? I know your sister, that she is good and noble, I desire nothing more. I, too, am all alone.”