it?" he besought her. "Why on earth should
you _impose_ such a condition?" He frowned his incomprehension.

"Because you have asked me to be your wife," she answered.

He shook his head, mournfully, scornfully.

"If ever an explanation darkened counsel!" mournfully he jeered.

"You have asked me to be your wife. I reply that first you must make a
journey to Sampaolo. Is that not simple?" said Susanna.

He was walking about the room.

"Do you mean to say "--he came to a standstill--"that if I make a
journey to Sampaolo, you _will_ be my wife?"

"I mean to say that I will never be your wife unless you do."

"But if I do--?"

She leaned back, smiling, among her cushions.

"That will depend upon the result of your journey."

He shook his head again.

"I 'm utterly at sea," he professed. "I have never heard anything that
sounded so bewilderingly devoid of reason. Explain yourself. What is
it all about?"

"Reflect for a moment," said she, assuming a tone argumentative.
"Consider the embarrassment of my position. You ask me to be your
wife. But if I consent, you give up your only chance of regaining your
Italian patrimony--do you not? But a man should at least _know_ what
he is giving up. _You_ should know what your patrimony consists of.
You should know, as the saying is, what you 'stand to lose.' Therefore
you must go to Sampaolo, and see it with your own eyes. Isola Nobile,
Castel San Guido, the Palazzo Rosso, Villa Formosa--you must see them
all, with their gardens and their pictures and their treasures. And
then you must ask yourself in cold blood, 'Is that woman I left at
Craford really worth it?'"

She smiled. But, as he made to speak, her hand commanded silence.

"No, no," she said. "You have not seen them yet, so you can't tell.
When you have seen them, you will very likely thank me for leaving you
free to-day. You will think, with a shudder, 'Good heavens, what a
narrow escape! What if she had taken me at my word?' Then you can
offer yourself to your cousin, and let us hope she 'll accept you."

Again, as he made to speak, her hand silenced him.

"But if," she went on, "if, by any chance, you should _not_ thank
me,--if, in cold blood, with your eyes open, you should decide that the
woman you left at Craford _is_ worth it,--why, then you can return to
her, and renew your suit. And she'll have the satisfaction of knowing
that _you_ know what's she costing you."

Anthony stood