“You are not old. For me you can never be an old man. In your arms I had my first taste of bliss, and I doubt not it is my destiny that my last bliss shall be shared with you!”
“Your last?” rejoined Casanova cynically, though he was not altogether unmoved. “I think my friend Olivo would have a word to say about that.”
“What you speak of,” said Amalia reddening, “is duty, and even pleasure; but it is not and never has been bliss.”
They did not walk to the end of the grass alley. Both seemed to shun the neighborhood of the greensward, where Marcolina and the children were playing. As if by common consent they retraced their steps, and, silent now, approached the house again. One of the ground-floor windows at the gable end of the house was open. Through this Casanova glimpsed in the dark interior a half-drawn curtain, from behind which the foot of a bed projected. Over an adjoining chair was hanging a light, gauzy dress.
“Is that Marcolina’s room?” enquired Casanova.
Amalia nodded. “Do you like her?” she said—nonchalantly, as it seemed to Casanova.
“Of course, since she is good looking.”
“She’s a good girl as well.”
Casanova shrugged, as if the goodness were no concern of his. Then: “Tell me, Amalia, did you think me still handsome when you first saw me to-day?”
“I do not know if your looks have changed. To me you seem just the same as of old. You are as I have always seen you, as I have seen you in my dreams.”