“Ah,” said Luiza, stealing a rapid glance at Donna Felicidade, “it is a novel?”
“It is Dante,” said Accacio, severely,—“an epic poet, and considered among the best; inferior, perhaps, to our own Camoens, but the rival of the celebrated Milton.”
“But in those foreign stories the husbands always kill their wives,” exclaimed Donna Felicidade. “Is it not so?” she added, appealing to the counsellor.
“Yes, Donna Felicidade, in those countries domestic tragedies such as this are frequently enacted; the violence of the passions is greater there. But among us—and I say it with pride—the sanctity of the domestic hearth is respected. I, for instance, among my numerous acquaintances know only model husbands and wives.” And he added, turning to Luiza with a courteous smile, “Among the latter of whom the mistress of this house is queen.”
Donna Felicidade glanced up at Luiza, who was leaning over her chair, and touching her on the arm, said,—
“She is a jewel!”
“Our dear Jorge deserves her,” continued the counsellor. “For, as the poet says,
‘His noble heart, his haughty brow.
His brave and generous nature show.’”
This conversation irritated Luiza. She was about to seat herself at the piano, when Donna Felicidade exclaimed,—