"Rich? I don't know about that. Suppose I'm not?"
"I should like it much, much better."
They were silent, each grave, each following private thoughts; almost divided.
"You know," he said suddenly, following the thread of his own ideas, "I've been told your family has guessed our love. Is it true?"
"Yes," she said, after a short hesitation.
"Really? Really? Then your father is not angry?"
Margherita hesitated again. Then raised her head and said drily, "I don't know."
From her manner Anania understood something unfavourable, something unexpected which he could not make out. What was happening? Was the girl hiding some disagreeable secret? His mind flew to her, to his mother, to the distant phantom, and he asked if this shadow was coming between him and his love.
"You must tell me frankly," he said, distractedly caressing her hands, "what is going on? Am I to be allowed to aspire to you or not? May I go on hoping? You know what I am; a poor dependent on your family; the son of one of your servants."
"What nonsense!" she exclaimed impatiently. "Your father isn't a servant. Even if he were, he's a man respected and honoured by everyone, and that's enough."