"You know, Tullio," explained my mother, "she's not eaten anything yet. She wanted to wait for you."
"Oh, I haven't told you yet," interrupted Juliana, her face flushing. "I haven't told you yet that the doctor came during your absence. He said I am much better. I may get up on Thursday. You understand, Tullio? I may get up on Thursday."
Then she added:
"In ten or fifteen days, at the most, I shall even be able to undertake a journey."
After a moment's reverie she added, in a lower tone:
"The Lilacs!"
So that had been the unique object of her thoughts, the unique object of her dreams! She had believed; she believed. I had difficulty in dissimulating my anguish. I busied myself, perhaps with excessive eagerness, with the preparations for her little dinner. It was I who put the portable table on her knees.
She followed all my movements with a caressing look that pained me. "Ah! if she could guess!" All at once my mother exclaimed naïvely:
"How beautiful you are to-night, Juliana!"
In fact, an extraordinary animation lit up her features, brightened her eyes, completely rejuvenated her. My mother's exclamation made her blush, and during the whole evening her cheeks preserved a reflection of that redness. She repeated: