“How can you be poor, when you are still young and handsome, and have an angel for a daughter?”
She replied only by an expressive glance. I understood her reserve, and I stayed by her without speaking. Soon after, Agatha, as her daughter was named, came up to her to ask for a handkerchief to wipe her face.
“Allow me to offer you mine,” said I. It was a white handkerchief, and scented with attar of roses; this latter circumstance gave her an excuse for accepting it, but after smelling it she wanted to return it to me.
“You have not used it,” said I, “do so.”
She obeyed, and then returned it to me with a bow by way of thanks.
“You must not give it me back, fair Agatha, till you have had it washed.”
She smiled, and gave it to her mother, glancing at me in a grateful manner, which I considered of good omen.
“May I have the pleasure of calling on you?” said I.
“I cannot receive you, sir, except in the presence of my landlady.”
“This cursed restriction is general in Turin, then?”