"Have you seen Juliana?"
"Not yet."
"She wished to get up, the dear girl! She said that she no longer feels ill; but her face..."
"I am going to her."
"You must not neglect to write to the doctor. Do not listen to Juliana. Write this very day."
"Did you tell her ... that I know?"
"Yes, I told her that you know."
"I am going, mother."
I left her in front of her great walnut-wood closets perfumed with orris, in which two women were piling the beautiful washed linen, the pride of the Hermils. Maria, in the piano-room, was taking her lesson from Miss Edith, and the chromatic scales, rapid and even, succeeded one another. Pietro passed, the most faithful of the servants, white-haired, somewhat bent, bearing a tray of glasses that resounded because his arms trembled with age. The entire Badiola, bathed in air and light, had an aspect of tranquil joy. There was an atmosphere of goodness shed throughout—like the subtle and inextinguishable smile of the gods Lares.
Never before had that sensation, that smile, penetrated to my soul so deeply. And that great peace, that great goodness, enveloped the ignoble secret which Juliana and I were condemned to keep without dying of it!