Of the two, Marco Fiore seemed to be yielding feebly to this obstacle which was intruding itself between them: he was passive, a little morbid, and easily resigned. Maria Guasco, however, proud and combative, was fighting and endeavouring to conquer the infamous hand which was plucking in the dark all the roses of their passion. She, on the other hand, allowed herself to be conquered only at the last.
“Why don’t you go now?” she said anxiously.
“Yes, it is nearly eleven. If you want to return here afterwards,” she added, “you will make me wait up rather too long.”
He raised his eyebrows as if he experienced some difficulty in breathing or speaking.
“Well ... afterwards I should like to return home with Beatrice and mamma.”
“Ah!” she exclaimed at this blow, without further observation.
They became silent. He bent his head with that aspect of accustoming himself to a thing which had to occur, which had been usual with him for some time. She, instead, raised hers with that ever renascent pride which scorched her soul, and at last succeeded in smiling.
“But what will you do afterwards at home, Marco?”
“I shall go to bed. I am a little tired.”
“Why, I don’t know. I have a curious physical weariness.”
“Do you think so? Rest heals everything.”
“It is true. Do you remember the time when you were unable to go to sleep without having written me a letter?”
“Yes, I remember,” he said surprised; “but when was that?”
“It was before--before we lived together,” she replied, with a slight trembling of the lips.
“Some time ago,” he said simply, without meaning it.
He got up to go. He took her two hands in his and pressed them with an infantile caress over his face, minutely kissing their soft and fragrant palms, and, as she lowered her head, instead of kissing her eyes as when he came in, his kisses were immersed in the dark and odorous waves of her hair.
“To-morrow, then, Marco,” she whispered, raising her head.
“To-morrow certainly, Maria,” he replied.
She accompanied him for two or three steps, almost to the door. Then she stopped for still a look or a word.
Their voices were monotonous and colourless, and their faces inexpressive as they pronounced the usual words of farewell, now three years old.