Leonardo paused on the threshold. Lucia did not move.
“You have sent for me?” he said.
The signora shrugged her shoulders and smiled mockingly, it seemed to her husband.
“Why have you sent for me?” he demanded.
She left her place by the window, and came near to him.
“What I have to say,” she answered, “I would not that other ears than yours should hear. Will you walk a little way with me toward the corn-fields I see yonder?” pointing from the window at the back of the room.
“It is indifferent to me where I listen to you. It is impossible you can have aught to say that will be pleasant for me to hear,” replied Gilardoni bitterly.
“That remains to be seen,” she lightly replied. “Perhaps I may have something to say that will please you very much indeed.”
For a moment he thought that perhaps she knew her brother was coming back, and that she desired to offer some kind of compromise, or to throw herself on his mercy. But he followed very quietly as she led the way down the narrow path of the garden at the rear of the cottage, brushing past the common yet sweet-smelling humble country flowers, until they were at the bottom, and could step unimpeded into a piece of ground that ran between the garden and the corn-field, where the golden grain lay like a yellow sea.
Here no one could possibly overhear what passed, and presently they would be out of sight of even the cottages that lay sprinkled about. Then Lucia spoke. Her voice was firm and calm, her manner composed.