"How green it is!" said Leonora, stopping to look at the thick trees.
"Yes," answered Marcantonio, "it is very green."
He was thinking of something else, and Leonora's very natural and simple remark did not divert his thoughts. The cook had arrived with a touch of the fever, and he was debating whether to send for the doctor at once or to wait till the next day. For he was very good to his servants, and took care of them. But Leonora wanted something more enthusiastic.
"But it is so very fresh and green!" she repeated. "Do you not see how lovely it all is?" She laid her hand on his arm.
"Oui, chérie," said he, getting rid of the cook by an effort, "and green is the colour of hope." Then it struck him that the saying was rather commonplace, and he began to realise what she wanted. "It is a perfect fairyland," he went on, "and we will enjoy it as long as we please. Are you fond of sailing, my dear?"
"Oh, of all things!" exclaimed Leonora, enthusiastically. "I love the sea and the beautiful colours, and everything"—
She stopped short and put her arm through his and made him walk again. She was conscious, perhaps, that she was making an effort,—why, she could not tell,—and that she had not much to say.
"Marcantoine"—she began. They spoke French together, though she knew Italian better. She thought his name long, but had not yet decided how to abbreviate it.
"Yes, what would you say, my dear?" he asked pleasantly.
"I think I could—no—Marcantoine, now that we are married, are you quite sure that you love me—quite, quite?" Marcantonio's face turned strangely earnest and quiet. He looked into her eyes as he answered.