'"
She turned with a sudden passionate motion as if she would answer him,
and then, struggling for control, turned back without a word, drawing
the child closer and caressing him until she was calm again. When she
raised her head she spoke in a resolute, restrained voice.
"Since thou wilt have it, Piero--listen. And rest thine oar, for we are
almost home; and to-night must be quite the end of all this talk. It can
never be. Thou hast no understanding of such matters, so I forgive thee
for myself. But for Toinetta--I do not think I ever can forgive thee,
may the good Madonna help me!"
"There are two in every marriage," Piero retorted sullenly, for he was
angry now.
"It is just that--oh, it is just that!" Marina cried, clasping her hands
passionately. "Thou art so strong and so compelling, and thou dost not
stop for the right of it. She was such a child, she knew no better,
poverina! And thou--a man--not for love, nor right, nor any noble
thing"--the words came with repressed scorn--"to coax her to it, just
for a little triumph! To expose a child to such endless _critica_!"
Only a Venetian of the people could comprehend the full sting of this
word, which conveyed the searching, persistent disapproval of an entire
class, whose code, if viewed from the moral point of view, was painfully
slack, though from its own standard of decorum it was immutable.
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