"You have read that letter?" were the first connected words of the Lady Adelaide.
"Nay, my love, surely not, without your permission. Will you that I read it?"
She motioned in the affirmative.
"A guilty, glowing color came over his face as he read. Who could have written it? That it alluded to Gina Montani there was no doubt. Who could have sent it? He felt convinced that she had no act or part in so dishonorable a trick—yet what may not be expected from a jealous woman? Now came his trial.
"Was it not enough to make me ill?" demanded Adelaide.
He stammered something. He was not yet sufficiently collected to speak connectedly.
"Giovanni," she exclaimed, passionately, "deceive me not. Tell me what I have to fear: how much of your love is left for me—if any."
He tried to soothe her. He told her an enemy must have done this; and he mentioned Gina Montani, though not by name. He said that he had sometimes visited her house, but not to love; and that the letter must allude to this.
"You say you did not love her!" she cried, resentment in her tone, as she listened to the tale.
He hesitated a single second; but, he reasoned to himself, he ought at all risks to lull her suspicions—it was his duty. So he replied firmly, though the flush of shame rose to his brow, for he deemed a falsehood dishonorable. "In truth I did not. My love is yours, Adelaide."