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Emilio was an old man. He realized it.
Why had he never realized it before? Was he, full of youth, beauty,
chivalrous energy and devotion, to be interfered with, set aside, for
a man with gray hairs thick upon his head, for a man who spent half
his hours bent over a writing-table? Emilio had never wished him to
know the ladies of the island. He knew the reason now, and glowed with
a fiery lust of battle. Vere had attracted him from the first. But
this opposition drove on attraction into something stronger, more
determined. He said to himself that he was madly in love. Never yet
had he been worsted in an amour by any man. The blood surged to his
head at the mere thought of being conquered in the only battle of life
worth fighting--the battle for a woman, and by a man of more than
twice his age, a man who ought long ago to have been married and have
had children as old as the Signorina Vere.
Well, he had been a good friend to Emilio. Now Emilio should see that
the good friend could be the good enemy.


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