“Olivo, is it really you?”
“Yes, Signor Casanova, it is I. You recognize me, then?”
“Why not? Since I last saw you, on your wedding day, you’ve put on flesh; but very likely I’ve changed a good deal, too, in these fifteen years, though not perhaps in the same fashion.”
“Not a bit of it,” exclaimed Olivo. “Why, Signor Casanova, you have hardly changed at all! And it is more than fifteen years; the sixteen years were up a few days ago. As you can imagine, Amalia and I had a good talk about you on the anniversary of our wedding.”
“Indeed?” said Casanova cordially. “You both think of me at times?”
The tears came to Olivo’s eyes. He was still holding Casanova’s hands, and he pressed them fondly.
“We have so much to thank you for, Signor Casanova. How could we ever forget our benefactor? Should we do so...”
“Don’t speak of it,” interrupted Casanova. “How is Signora Amalia? Do you know, I have been living in Mantua three months, very quietly to be sure, but taking plenty of walks as I always have done. How is it, Olivo, that I never met you or your wife before?”
“The matter is simple, Signor Casanova. Both Amalia and I detest the town, and we gave up living there a long time ago. Would you do me the favor to jump in? We shall be at home in an hour.”
Casanova tried to excuse himself, but Olivo insisted.