Maria Guasco was proceeding minutely to the completion of her toilette. That morning she was wearing a cloth dress of maroon colour, cut in the English fashion, through the jacket of which a blouse of white Irish lace was to be seen; the full skirt in big pleats discovered the neat feet shod in black kid. A large straw hat, with a circlet of red roses and a thin veil, was placed over the chestnut hair, affording a glimpse of its waves over the forehead, temple and neck. In her simple dress without ornaments, and in its exact lines, she looked enchantingly young. She said to Chiara, who was hovering round offering her gloves, parasol, and purse—
“Let your master know that I am ready and waiting for him here.”
Meanwhile she buttoned her yellow deerskin gloves and verified the contents of her purse.
“The master begs Your Excellency to oblige him with your presence in the study,” said Chiara on returning in a low voice.
Maria frowned slightly, and for an instant the colour left her cheeks. Then, as if her will predominated immediately, she proceeded towards her husband’s study, and not a shadow of her recent emotion appeared on her recomposed face.
Seated behind his desk Emilio was writing a letter and smoking a cigarette. He did not raise his head.
“Well, Emilio,” asked his wife in a soothing voice, standing in the middle of the room, “aren’t you dressed for the meet?”
“No,” he replied, raising his head from his letter absently, “I am not dressed.”
“Wasn’t this the hour?” she continued gently; “ten o’clock, I think.”
“Yes, ten o’clock,” and he lowered his head, resuming his writing.
Maria’s gloved hand nervously clutched the onyx knob of her parasol.
“Well, well,” she asked again, with a certain insistency. Emilio let his pen fall, throwing it on the table, pushed the letter aside, and leaning back in his chair regarded his wife for a long time earnestly without speaking.
“I have decided not to go to this last meet.”
“Ah!” said Maria only.
Then, as if it annoyed her to remain standing before her husband’s desk, her eyes sought a chair. She found one a little bit away and sat down, still holding her parasol and purse, in the attitude of a lady paying a visit.
Both were silent; though, as ever since her return, he fixed his eyes on his wife’s face and person with a curiosity half thoughtful and half observant, with an attitude of acute investigation which sometimes embarrassed Maria.
“Still, Emilio,” she said in a low voice, to break the silence, “you are so fond of fox-hunting.”
“I like it very much, it is true,” he replied.
“And it will be a year before you can begin again.”
“That is true.”
“Didn’t you decide yesterday evening to go?”
“Certainly I did decide to go; but a night has passed on it.”
“You don’t sleep at night and think of the meet at Cecilia Metella?” she asked, trying to joke.
“Eh, one doesn’t always sleep,” he replied, with an irritable gesture of annoyance.
She was silent. Then she raised her head resolutely.
“Since I should have accompanied you, may I consider myself free?” she asked, with some impatience.
“You have other plans?” he murmured, looking at her again fixedly.
“I have had no others from the moment that it was arranged that we should go out together,” she replied quickly.
“I beg your pardon for having made you dress; you have lost a toilette.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, shrugging her shoulders, and she began to trace the arabesque designs of the carpet with her parasol.
“Emilio?” she said suddenly.
“Maria!”
“Why don’t you go alone to Cecilia Metella? Go and put on your pink; the victoria is ready, and will take you to where Francesco is waiting with the horses. Go now.”
Her tone was quiet, indifferent, and persuasive.
“No!” he exclaimed, with an angry gesture; “I don’t want to.”
“Emilio,” she continued, in a voice still more persuasive, “I know that it is on my account that you are not going to Cecilia Metella. I beg you not to renounce this pleasure.”
“Thank you; I shall not go,” he said drily.
Maria got up suddenly, as if she had nothing further to say.
“Where are you going?” he exclaimed, rising from his seat and following her for a few steps.
“To my room,” she replied, a little surprised; “then I shall go out.”
“To go where?” he asked again harshly.
“I don’t know; I shall go for a walk somewhere,” she said, still more surprised.
“Where?” and anger trembled in the demand.
“Emilio!” she exclaimed in sweet reproach; “Emilio!”
He changed colour.
“I beg your pardon, Maria, I beg your pardon.”
He threw himself on a large sofa, without taking the hand she offered him. The woman remained standing, and looked at him.
“Shall we go out together, Emilio?” she asked patiently.
“No.”
“Let us go outside the city where there is nobody.”
“No, no.”
“In the carriage to Villa Pamphily? It is such a beautiful morning, and the air is so soft. Come, do.”
“No, no, no!” he exclaimed, without looking at her.
“Well, then, what ought I to do?” she asked patiently.
“Nothing.”
“What do you wish to do?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you wish me to remain? Do you wish me to go?” and the tone was one of sublime patience.
He understood it and melted.
“Maria, you are treating me like a child. Do you think I am ill? I have white hair, but I am not infirm.”
She noticed all the signs of anger and suffering.
“At times we are ill without knowing it, and we mustn’t repulse an affectionate hand.”
“What charity!” he exclaimed, with irony.
“What are you irritated about, Emilio? Because of the sentiment or the person?” she asked.
“For the two things,” he replied, with asperity.
“Ah!” she said, and her hand, trembling a little, found the handle of her parasol. Again she made as if to go away without greeting him, without turning round.
“Are you offended?” he cried to her back; “you will end by hating me.”
“I am not offended,” she replied, stopping with lowered eyes and speaking slowly; “I have tamed my pride, Emilio, in the contact of life, and I am not offended. I can hate no one.”
He looked at her peculiarly and gloomily, with the strange insistence of a man who wished to extract a tremendous secret from a glance. But she did not see it. The question which was trembling on Emilio’s lips disappeared. He lapsed again into confusion and silence.
“Are you going to your bank?” she asked, to say something.
“Yes, for a moment,” he replied absently.
“Shall you come home to lunch?”
“Yes, at the usual hour.”
“What are you going to do afterwards?”
“I don’t know,” he replied.
“I am going to stay at home just now, and later——” she continued monotonously.
“Later?” he asked, with a start.
“I have a meeting.”
“Ah!” he replied, looking at her.
“With Flaminia Colonna; a work of charity,” she explained, somewhat coldly.
“Flaminia has always continued to love you.”
“She has continued to,” she answered bitterly, biting her lip, growing a little pale, “like any other friend.”
“Do you go out together?”
“Yes,” she replied, still paler; “are you surprised?” and the question was put harshly.
“No,” he said, speaking with difficulty, so great was his emotion; “Flaminia Colonna is a woman and a friend ... while I——”
“While you?” she asked.
“I am a man, a husband.”
There was a deep silence between them.
“Is that the reason why you didn’t go to Cecilia Metella with me?” she resumed.
“That is the reason,” he replied.
“What were you fearing?” in a voice still deeper.
“Ridicule. Every one would have laughed at me, seeing me with you.”
She fell back. Her eyes grew clouded, but she had the strength not to open her mouth, to walk away without turning, leaving the man who had told his secret stretched on the sofa like a miserable weakling.