I used to think at first that perhaps
when we'd been married a long time, and I was sure of his love, I might
tell him--a little, not everything. But now I know that I never, never
can. It would be a thousand times worse than before, if he found out. It
would mean my death, that's all. I couldn't look into his eyes, his
dear, beautiful eyes that adore me, that I adore. You haven't seen him
yet. But you know Vanno's eyes, and what it would be to see them turn
cold after they have been--stars of love. That expresses them."
"Yes, that expresses them," Mary almost whispered. She closed her
eyelids for an instant and Vanno's eyes looked into hers, as they had
looked in the cure's garden, after the first kiss. Nothing that Marie
could have said would have made her understand as clearly. If she were
as Marie was, she felt that she could not tell Vanno, now that his eyes
had worshipped her. She would not marry him and _not_ tell, if there
were things that ought to be told; but she would go away, far away,
where the dear eyes might never look at her again.
"You don't know yet what it is to love," Marie went on; and Mary
answered, as if she were speaking to herself, "I almost think I do
know--now."
"If you do, you can understand me."
"I am beginning to understand," Mary said.
"You swear that you've said nothing to Vanno, to make him suspect? When
he told you about his brother and sister-in-law, did he mention my name
as--as a girl?"
"He said your name was Marie Gaunt----"
"Oh! And then?"
"I believe I talked about having a friend once with a name rather like
yours, but not quite.
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