It is, perhaps, myself I fear, Paulo. A strange dread haunts me like a dream. I fear lest I injure your great work, your mission——
Paulo
You tremble still. You are excited. Tell me, Little Child—do you know something that you hide from me—that you cannot tell me?
[Pause.
Lucia
Nothing, nothing, but my woman’s mood. My passion to help you is so great I sometimes fear lest I guide it wrongly—(breaks off). See, Paulo, the light is good, and we have this broidery you need (replaces old drapery with the new silk piece)—the very thing—exactly the tint and texture. I’ll sit for you. (Shows hurry.) There is no time to lose. Some one might disturb us.
Paulo
(A look of suspicion comes and goes. He watches her puzzled, while mixing his paints.) Your mood is new. That is what disquiets me. You seem expectant almost. And this strange haste, Lucia? We never hurry!
Lucia
(Laughing gaily.) Only that I long to see this colour (touches silk) in your picture—on the very canvas, alive and burning—before it is seen by—by others.