Massimilla’s eyes followed the movement of my oar as from time to time it crushed a leaf or broke a stalk, and I said softly—
“Are you thinking of Simonetto?”
She started.
“How do you know?” she asked me again, much agitated, with flushing cheeks.
“I know from Oddo....”
“Ah!” she said, without concealing her regret at this knowledge of mine, which seemed to wound her. “Oddo told you....”
She relapsed into a silence which I felt to be a very painful one for her. I stopped rowing for a few seconds, and the light boat rested motionless amidst the wide extent of white blossoms.
“Did you love him very much?” I asked the silent maiden, with a gentleness that reminded her perhaps of our earlier interviews.
“As I love Oddo, as I love Antonello,” she replied, with a tremble in her voice, without raising her eyelids.
After a pause I asked her—