As she came back, she saw that his eyes followed all her
movements, gravely, as a sick child watches its nurse moving about its
room. There was no reproach in their look, but they were still fixed on
her, when she sat down again by his side.
"Veronica," said the faint, far voice, presently. "May I ask you one
question, that I have no right to ask?"
"Anything," she answered. "And you have the right to ask anything."
"No--not this. Do you love another man?"
The still blue eyes widened, in earnestness.
"No, Gianluca. No--by the truth of God--no living man!"
"Nor one dead?" His tone sank almost to a whisper, and still his eyes
were wide for her answer.
A faint and tender light came into her face, so faint, so far reflected
from an infinite somewhere, that only such eyes as his could have seen
it.
"There was Bosio," she said softly. "He spoke to me the night he
died--I could have married him--I should have loved him--perhaps."
If the little phrases were broken, it was not by hesitation; it seemed
rather as though what they meant must find each memory to have meaning,
one by one, and word by word--and finding, wondered at what had once
been true.
And Gianluca smiled, as he lay still, and the lids of his eyes closed
peacefully and naturally, opening again with another look. He was too
weak to be surprised by what he had only vaguely guessed, from some word
she had let fall, but he knew well enough, from her voice and face, that
she had never loved Bosio Macomer, nor any other man, dead or living.
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