“You were very angry when you arrived?”
She waited for his reply.
“Why do you not speak, Carlino?”
“I am watching fish for coolness,” he said.
“Meantime,” said Violetta, “I am scorched.”
He looked up, and led her to an arch of shade, where he sat quite silent.
“Can anything be more vexing than this?” she was reduced to exclaim.
“Ah!” said he, “you would like the catalogue to be written out for you in a big bold hand, possibly, with a terrific initials at the end of the page.”
“Carlo, you have done worse than that. When I saw you first here, what crimes did you not accuse me of? what names did you not scatter on my head? and what things did I not, confess to? I bore the unkindness, for you were beaten, and you wanted a victim. And, my dear friend, considering that I am after all a woman, my forbearance has subsequently been still greater.”
“How?” he asked. Her half-pathetic candour melted him.