“And you, Don Frederico,” she at last replied, “in what would you make it to consist? To return to your country?”
“No,” sighed Stein.
“In what then?” repeated Marisalada.
“I will tell thee, my linnet; but beforehand tell me in what thou makest thine to consist.”
“To always hear you play the flute,” she replied with sincerity.
At this moment Maria came from the kitchen with the good intention to terminate the affair; but she occasioned that which happens to a great many: excess of zeal spoiled all.
“Do you not see, Don Frederico, how pretty Marisalada is, and what a beautifully formed woman?”
“Yes, yes,” continued Stein to Maria, “she is handsome, and her eyes are the type of Arabian eyes so celebrated.”
“They say of the hedgehogs, each looks at a thorn,” growled Momo.
“And this mouth so pretty, which sings like a seraphim,” pursued the old woman, caressing the chin of her protégé.