"We will have glorious days together," continued Veronica. "We will do all sorts of things together. They do say that it rains a good deal in those mountains--well, when it rains, you can write to Signor Ghisleri, while I write to Don Gianluca."
Her innocent laughter at the idea startled Bianca, and the beautiful face grew paler, until it was almost wan. Veronica thought she was like a passion flower, just then. A short silence followed.
"Veronica," said Bianca, at last, "why do you not marry Gianluca, since you have grown to liking him so much?"
"I like him for a friend," answered Veronica, quietly. "I do not want a husband. Some day, I will tell you my story, perhaps--some day, if you will come to Muro, dear. Think about it."
She left the room rather abruptly, and Bianca did not refer to the subject again. She had the power, rare in either of two friends, of not asking questions. Confidence given for the asking, however readily, is but the little silver coin of friendship; the gold is confidence unasked.
In the days that followed, Gianluca wrote to Veronica again and again, about all manner of subjects which had come up in their conversation; and Veronica's short notes of thanks grew longer, until she found that she, too, was beginning to write real letters, and looked forward to writing them, as well as to receiving his. And his came oftener, until she had one almost every day.
But when he came, as he did, twice a week, to the villa, they rarely spoke of their correspondence. Somehow it had come to be a bond linking certain sides of their natures which they did not show to each other when they met and talked. They never could talk as freely as they wrote, even upon the most indifferent subjects, though Gianluca seemed perfectly at his ease in conversation. There was a sort of undefined restraint from time to time, together with the certainty that they would write what they really meant, within a day or two, and understand each other far better than by spoken words.
In Gianluca's case such a condition of things was natural enough. He felt that she understood friendship when he meant love, and he was aware that he was progressing slowly but surely towards the freedom to say what was always in his heart, while his success must depend upon his wisdom and tact in not surprising her with a declaration of passion, in the midst of a discussion upon church history or modern systems of charity. Compared with what he had felt in their former relations, he was happy, now, beyond his utmost expectations; and, in the relative happiness he had found, he was willing to be patient, rather than to risk anything prematurely.