He had already scented in this affable young man, with his somewhat distracted and almost wandering air, the generous milord, inexperienced, careless of money. He knew that the generosity of his guest would be much more profitable for him than if he made his own terms.
George asked:
"Is the place quiet, without visitors, without noise?"
The old man pointed to the sea and smiled:
"Look; you will hear nothing but that."
He added:
"Sometimes the sound of the loom, too. But now Candia hardly weaves at all."
And he smiled, pointing to the threshold where stood his daughter-in-law, blushing.
She was enceinte, already very large at the waist, blond, a clear carnation, her face sown with freckles. She had big gray eyes, the iris veined like agates. She wore in her ears two heavy gold rings, and on her bosom the presenfoso, a large star of filigree work, with two hearts in the centre. On the threshold beside her was a little girl of ten, a blonde also, with a sweet expression.
"One could drink down that little madcap in a glass," said the old man. "That's all! There are only us and Albadora."