“I asked you just now if you had ever loved, and you told me, ‘No’. You are right! Keep to your resolution. Never allow yourself to be entangled in a woman’s wiles, for they are Death to those who trust in them. When I was only one-and-twenty and had just come into my father’s estates and title, I fell a victim to the charms of Leonora d’Asissi, a young lady my equal in rank and position, and after a brief courtship, we were married. Ah! Steinberg, how I loved--I adored--that woman! You, who confess to having never experienced the tender passion cannot enter into my feelings. We Italians are famous for our ardent love, and no Italian ever loved more ardently than I did. I lived only in her presence; I was never weary of contemplating her exquisite beauty; I waited on her as a slave; I made the day and night tremulous with the repetition of my love. Do not we often weary women by telling them too often that we love them, Steinberg? Are they fickle by nature, or is it only that they hate monotony? Any way Leonora, my adored wife, wearied of me and mine. She could not bear to remain in our beautiful villa in the country, where she saw no one but her enraptured lover, but pined to return to the palazzo in Rome which has been in our family for generations. Here, she would collect around her all the young married women like herself, with their attendant _cavalieres serventes_ and turn night into day with her balls and feasts and concerts. And yet I suspected nothing!” “Was there anything to suspect?” demanded the Doctor. The Professor started in his seat. “Ah! now you touch the root of the matter! Was there? _Was_ there? The question haunts me night and day. But I was jealous, Steinberg, all my nation are! Where Love is so warm, doubts will intrude themselves. Perhaps we expect too much from women. Their natures are not so passionate as ours. We tax them too much--we look for a flame as ardent as our own--and when we do not find it, we begin to suspect it is bestowed upon another man. When I had my Leonora all to myself--when in the silence of night, her beautiful head lay in peaceful sleep upon my breast, I believed nothing but good of her--but when I watched her whirling round the ball room in the arms of some one of my acquaintance, or found her sitting in the conservatory with another, Suspicion would lay hold of my jealous temper, and I would question if after all, she were deceiving me, and everyone knew the bitter truth but myself.” The recollection of those days of anguish seemed to overcome the Signor even then, for he pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped the moisture from his brow. “The relation distresses you,” remarked Steinberg, “pray do not proceed.”