“I think I must be in disguise,” said she, “for I have never seen myself so decked out before.”
She praised the tasteful simplicity of the dress I had chosen, but was vexed at the thought that her mother would still be displeased.
“Think no more of your mother, dearest one. You look like a lady of quality, and I shall be quite proud when the people at Genoa ask me if you are my daughter.”
“At Genoa?”
“Yes, at Genoa. Why do you blush?”
“From surprise; perhaps I may see there one whom I have not yet forgotten.”
“Would you like to stay here better?”
“No, no! Love me and be sure that I love you and for your own sake, not from any thought of my own interests.”
“You are moved, my angel; let me wipe away your tears with kisses.”
She fell into my arms, and she relieved the various feelings of which her heart was full by weeping for some time. I did not try to console her, for she had not grief; she wept as tender souls, and women, more especially, often will. We had a delicious supper to which I did honour for two, for she ate nothing. I asked her if she was so unfortunate as not to care for good food.