Bosio and Veronica were alone.
To her, it seemed to have come suddenly at the end, and she did not
quite realize how it was that she found herself standing on one side of
the fireplace, while he stood on the other.
They looked at each other a moment. Then Veronica smiled faintly, and
drew herself up--or lengthened herself--as slight young girls have a way
of doing when they are pleased, and she turned a little in the movement,
and glanced at the clock, still faintly smiling.
Bosio was watching her, and he could not help admiring her lithe figure
and small, well-poised head, that had a sort of girlish royalty of
carriage not at all connected with beauty; for she was not beautiful,
and she herself knew that there were times when she was almost ugly. He
saw and admired, and he cursed himself for what he meant to do. He was
not sure, even now, that he could do it.
There was no awkwardness in the silence, Veronica thought, for it seemed
to her that he understood, and that words were hardly necessary. If she
had meant to refuse him, she would have done so through Matilde. She
smiled, looking at the clock, and thinking about it all. Then she
realized that no word had been spoken on either side, and she turned her
head a little shyly, till she could just see his face, while the smile
still lingered on her lips. One hand rested on the mantelpiece, with
the other she touched the artificial gardenia in her bodice.
"That is my answer, you know," she said quietly, and her eyes waited for
his.
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