“Then stay on; why should you go away?” asked Marcel.
“Ah! It is not I who can give her the distraction she needs,” said the handsome Italian, heedlessly.
A moment later he appeared to regret having spoken so frankly.
“It is much easier for strangers, you see, than for intimates to obtain a fortunate change in the dispositions of people who suffer.”
“But your sister is not suffering! Look with what an alert and supple step she is walking there, in front of us.”
“Yes; but just now her nerves sustain her. This very night she will relapse into a feeling of melancholy, and be completely prostrated. I shall not be able to draw a single word from her.”
“If you would authorize me to call and see her, and she also would permit me, I should find great pleasure in her company.”
The Italian grasped Marcel effusively by the hand.
“I do not know how to thank you for your kindness. But it would be expecting too much from you. Poor Anetta would quickly tire out your patience. She is a capricious child. You do not know her yet.”
They had no opportunity to continue, for Madame Vignola turned towards them a questioning look, which asked—