‘Before I tell you that, tell me why, if Beppo was as bad as you say, and treated you with cruelty, you stayed in the same house with him? Why did you let him stay here and work for us--for you and me--as I know he has done?’ Almost without hesitation, and certainly without the flicker of an eyelid, the signora replied: ‘For the same reason that has dictated all my other conduct--for your sake. Alone, I was unequal to the responsibility--the wear and tear of carrying on this house. When one has no money and no friends, and when one is alone, one may drown one’s self. When one has one’s child to live for, one lives through every degradation. That is the reason why I live under the same roof with him.’ Fulvia bowed her head, smiling with indescribable bitterness. ‘I see,’ said she. ‘For me you have endured these sufferings--meaning that, when my turn came, I should suffer, too, and should set you free?’ ‘I had hoped that it would be your pride and pleasure to do so,’ replied her mother; ‘and I am confronted with the extraordinary statement that you are not in love with the man who wishes to marry you. What girl--what decent, virtuous, well-brought-up girl--is ever in love with her husband when she marries him? What should you know of love? Heaven forbid that at your age and in your circumstances you should be acquainted with it. You know now exactly how things stand. Now and on the spot you must make your decision. Either your engagement to Signor Marchmont must be honourably carried out, in which case I must hear no more sighs and complaints, or you must tell me at once that you prefer to accept Signora Hastings’ offer and go over to her. Should you thus decide I shall not reproach you, I shall not blame you. I shall simply say, You cease to be my child; and I shall require that you both leave my house this night. Here I take my seat. Reflect as long as you please on the matter; but you will give me your answer before we leave this room.’ She seated herself, folded her hands on her knee, and waited. Not a tremor betrayed that she felt any agitation. Minna confessed to herself that the woman was magnificent in her cleverness and audacity. She was playing for what to her were the highest stakes imaginable--money, ease, freedom. She was secure of victory. There was no hope now for the other side. Minna dared not look at Fulvia, but, as the girl had not yet spoken, she made a last forlorn effort, and said in a rather loud, spasmodic voice, which broke in discordantly upon the silence: ‘Signora Dietrich, you are acting unfairly. You ought not to require your daughter’s answer without having called Signor Oriole, and given him the chance of replying to your accusations.’