Marcantonio lighted a cigarette and stood looking out over the water, by his wife's side. She was quite silent, and fanned herself indolently with a little straw fan decked with ribbons.
"Will you really go to-morrow night?" asked Marcantonio at last. He had a way of dwelling on things that wearied Leonora. What possible difference could it make whether they went to-morrow, or the day after? "Because," he continued, "if you will be ready, I will make arrangements."
"What arrangements?" asked Leonora languidly.
"I will write to the cardinal to say I am coming,—one must do that."
"You can telegraph."
"What is the use, when there is time for writing? Why should one waste a franc in a telegram?" He had curious little economies of his own.
"A franc!" she exclaimed with a little laugh.
"And besides," he continued, not heeding her remark, "old gentlemen do not like to receive telegrams. It gives on their nerves."
"Enfin," said she, weary of the question, "you can write that you will go to-morrow night, if you like."
"And you—will you go then?" he asked.