“Ah!” he breathed painfully. “I understand. And yet you love him, my poor Anne? He—he is your lover?”
She shook her head. The firelight leapt up the ivory column of her throat, tinting her hair with living gold.
“No—not yet, Vittorio.”
He uttered a low cry almost of joy.
“Thank God! Then it’s not too late. Ah, Anne, think what it would mean to you to take a lover, you to whom marriage was a crucifixion! Have you forgotten our long talks in the garden? How often you have confided to me your horror of contact? That is why you have always refused to marry again? Even me, your very oldest friend! How could you bear it, then, to have a lover?”
Her face cupped within her hands, Anne gazed into the fire.
“Don’t make it too hard for me, Vittorio. Let me explain.”
He broke in quickly.
“No explanation is necessary. You love at last. And when a woman like you loves, she surrenders all. But think well. The ignoble does not suit you. Your love will not survive it. You will lose caste in your own eyes—you will be talked about—whispered about——”
Anne laughed grimly. “Talked about, whispered about! Am I not accustomed to that!”