She knows
that the man had deserted her and was quite unworthy of her
devotion;--but she pretends to herself that she does NOT know. And
it is charming, of course! But women will do that kind of thing. It
is extraordinary,--but they will. They all deceive themselves in
matters of love. Even you deceive yourself."
Angela started.
"I?" she exclaimed.
"Yes--you--why not?" And the Abbe treated her to one of his
particularly paternal smiles. "You are betrothed to Florian
Varillo,--but no man ever had or ever could have all the virtues
with which you endow this excellent Florian. He is a delightful
creature,--a good artist--unique in his own particular line,--but
you think him something much greater than even artist or man--a sort
of god, (though the gods themselves were not impeccable) only fit to
be idealised. Now, I am not a believer in the gods,--but of course
it is delightful to me to meet those who are."
"Signor Varillo needs neither praise nor defence," said Angela with
a slight touch of hauteur, "All the world knows what he is."
"Yes, precisely! That is just it,--all the world knows what he is,--
" and the Abbe rubbed his forehead with an air of irritation, "And I
am vexing you by my talk, I can see! Well, well!--You must forgive
my garrulity;--I admit my faults--I am old--I am a cynic--I talk too
much--I have a bad opinion of man, and an equally bad opinion of the
Forces that evolved him.
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