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Bosio Macomer was a refined man, not only by education and outward contact with the refinements he sought in others, but within himself and by predisposition of nature. He read much, and found beauties in books which his friends thought dull, but which appealed tenderly to his innate love of tenderness.
At least, she thought so. But she also preferred Taquisara to Gianluca, by many degrees of preference. Yet both these men were commonly spoken of as handsome. She thought of another point, too, and with her blood it was natural that she should think of it. If she married Bosio, he would take her name and titles; not she, his.
"Oh, what a coward you are!" she cried in a low voice, in deep disgust, and as she spoke she dropped his arm in contempt, though she still held his face with her angry gaze. "You have no right to call me a coward," answered Bosio, defending his manhood. "I told you that I could not do it. The man put it in such a way that I had to give him a definite answer.
Bosio walked rapidly at first, and then more slowly as he came nearer to the old quarter in which the Palazzo Macomer was situated. As with all men of such character, his irresolution increased just when he fancied that he was about to do something decisive.
"Certainly," answered Veronica, readily. "Yes the rest of the house is horribly gloomy, now." Matilde was behind her on the stairs, evidently fatigued, but as the young girl spoke, a look of detestation flashed across her worn face. She hated Veronica, now that Bosio was dead. But for Veronica, Bosio would still have been alive.
The smile had subsided within its usual limits, and the china blue eyes stared coldly. She was evidently waiting to be paid. "What do I owe you?" asked Bosio, with a certain considerateness of tone, so to say. "It is twenty-five lire," answered Giuditta Astarita. "I have but one price. Thank you," she added, as he laid the notes upon the polished walnut table. "Do you wish a few of my cards?
I was angry about Taquisara. What right had he to come here, to pry into our affairs? I should think you would have resented it, too." "I did," said Bosio, somewhat sullenly. "But I could not turn him out, nor get into a quarrel with him. It would have made a useless scandal and would have set every one talking." "Certainly," assented Matilde.
Would you have it cut off and cropped by the convict's shears? My hands that you are holding dear would you love them galled by the irons, riveted upon them for years? Save me, Bosio! You are free now save me, for the dear sake of all that has been!"
Oh we shall be friends! But the other no! Good bye, Bosio good bye." Something moved him, as she had not meant that anything should. "I do not believe you," he said. "You love me still I will not leave you!" "No, no! I do not but if you still care at all, save me. Say good bye, but do the rest also. You are free now. You are an honourable man again. Bosio, look at my hair. You used to love it.
There was really much directness of understanding and purpose in her young character, together with a fair share of tenacity; for, as Matilde had told Bosio, Veronica was a Serra, which was at least equivalent to saying that she was not an insignificant person of weak will and feeble intelligence. She was indeed the last of her name, but the race had not decayed.
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