'Do not say such things!' laughed Aliandra. 'I do not believe much that you say, but you will soon not let me believe anything at all. Everyone has seen Concetta. They sing songs about her even in Palermo—La Fata del' Etna—'
'Oh, I have heard of her, of course, by that name, but I never remember seeing her. At all events, you are ten times more beautiful than she—'
'I wish I were!' exclaimed the artist, simply. 'But if you think so, that is much.'
'It would be just the same if you were ugly,' said Tebaldo, magnanimously. 'I should love you just as I do—to distraction.'
'To distraction?' she laughed again.
'You know it,' he answered, with an air of conviction. 'I love you, and everything that belongs to you—your lovely face, your angelic voice, your words, your silence—too much.'
'Why too much?'
'Because I suffer.'
'There is a remedy for that, my dear Tebaldo.'