Carlo had listened to Violetta, measuring the false and the true in this recapitulation of her conduct with cool accuracy until she alluded to their personal relations. Thereat his brows darkened. "We had I some trifling together," he said, musingly. "Is it going to be denied in these sweeter days?" Violetta reddened. "The phrase is elastic. Suppose my bride were to hear it?" "It was addressed to your ears, Carlo." "It cuts two ways. Will you tell me when it was that I last had the happiness of saluting you, lip to lip?" "In Brescia--before I had espoused an imbecile--two nights before my marriage--near the fountain of the Greek girl with a pitcher." Pride and anger nerved the reply. It was uttered in a rapid low breath. Coming altogether unexpectedly, it created an intense momentary revulsion of his feelings by conjuring up his boyish love in a scene more living than the sunlight. He lifted her hand to his mouth. He was Italian enough, though a lover, to feel that she deserved more. She had reddened deliciously, and therewith hung a dewy rosy moisture on her underlids. Raising her eyes, she looked like a cut orange to a thirsty lip. He kissed her, saying, "Pardon." "Keep it secret, you mean?" she retorted. "Yes, I pardon that wish of yours. I can pardon much to my beauty." She stood up as majestically as she had spoken. "You know, my Violetta, that I am madly in love." "I have learnt it." "You know it:--what else would . . ? If I were not lost in love, could I see you as I do and let Brescia be the final chapter?" Violetta sighed. "I should have preferred its being so rather than this superfluous additional line to announce an end, like a foolish staff on the edge of a cliff. You thought that you were saluting a leper, or a saint?" "Neither. If ever we can talk together again, as we have done," Carlo said gloomily, "I will tell you what I think of myself."