He would consider it; and if by Eastertide he had forgotten Corona, he would--he laughed aloud in his silent room, and the sound of his voice startled him from his reverie.
Forget?
Did such men as he forget?
Other men did.

What were they made of?
They did not love such women, perhaps; that was the reason they forgot.
Any one could forget poor Donna Tullia.

And yet how was it possible to forget if one loved truly?
Giovanni had never believed himself in love before.

He had known one or two women who had attracted him strongly; but he had soon found out that he had no real sympathy with them, that though they amused him they had no charm for him--most of all, that he could not imagine himself tied to any one of them for life without conceiving the situation horrible in the extreme.

To his independent nature the idea of such ties was repugnant: he knew himself too courteous to break through the civilities of life with a wife he did not love; but he knew also that in marrying a woman who was indifferent to him, he would be engaging to play a part for life in the most fearful of all plays--the part of a man who strives to bear bravely the galling of a chain he is too honourable to break.
It was four o'clock in the morning when Giovanni went to bed; and even then he slept little, for his dreams were disturbed.