“When you and I were alone for a few minutes, on the morning when I breakfasted here. You said it was quite natural that Carmina should have attracted me; but you were careful not to encourage the idea of a marriage between us. I understood that you disapproved of it—but you didn’t plainly tell me why.”
“Can women always give their reason?”
“Yes—when they are women like you.”
“Thank you, my dear, for a pretty compliment. I can trust my memory. I think I hinted at the obvious objections to an engagement. You and Carmina are cousins; and you belong to different religious communities. I may add that a man with your brilliant prospects has, in my opinion, no reason to marry unless his wife is in a position to increase his influence and celebrity. I had looked forward to seeing my clever son rise more nearly to a level with persons of rank, who are members of our family. There is my confession, Ovid. If I did hesitate on the occasion to which you have referred, I have now, I think, told you why.”
“Am I to understand that you hesitate still?” Ovid asked.
“No.” With that brief reply she rose to put away her book.
Ovid followed her to the bookcase. “Has Carmina conquered you?” he said.
She put her book back in its place. “Carmina has conquered me,” she answered.
“You say it coldly.”
“What does that matter, if I say it truly?”