"Have you counted?" Taquisara smiled. "Very good—five times—seventeen, if you like—you, sitting on the edge of your chair and opening your eyes wide to see her profile while she was looking at her aunt—you, saying that it was a fine day, or that Tamagno was a great singer; and she, saying 'yes' to everything. And you love her. Well, no doubt. I could love a woman with whom I might never have spoken at all—surely—and why not? But you take it for granted that she knows you love her and expects you to ask for her, and has been told that you have done so and has herself dictated the refusal. You are credulous and despondent, and you are not strong. Besides, you sit here all day long, brooding and doing nothing but expecting to die, and hoping that she will shed a tear when she hears of your untimely end. Is that what you call making love in Naples?"
"I have told you that I can do nothing."
"It does not follow that there is nothing to be done."
"What is there, for instance?"
"Go to the Palazzo Macomer and find out the truth yourself. Write to her—take your place before the door and stand there day and night until she sees you and notices you." Taquisara laughed. "Do anything—but do not sit here waiting to die in cotton wool with your feet to the fire and your head in the clouds."
"All that is absurd!" answered Gianluca, petulantly.
"Is it absurd? Then I will begin by doing it for you, and see what happens."
"You?" The younger man turned in surprise.
"I. Yes. All the more, as I have nothing to lose. I will go and find
Bosio Macomer and talk with him—"
"You will insult him," said Gianluca, anxiously. "There will be a quarrel—I know you—and a quarrel about her."