"Are you certain, really certain?" asked the old woman bewildered.
"Yes. Yes—s—s!" he cried, imitating his sweetheart in the joyous almost singing pronounciation of the word. "Why I've been living in her house for two whole months!"
He turned to drink, looking at the wine through the rosy light of the rude iron lamp. It was thick and he scarcely tasted it. Then he rubbed his mouth and seeing that the old grey napkin was torn, he put it over his face and looked through a hole, saying:
"Do you remember the night Zuanne and I dressed up? I put this very cloth over my head like this——But what's the matter?" he exclaimed, suddenly throwing the napkin down and changing his tone. His face had turned pale.
He saw that the widow's countenance, generally cadaverous and expressionless, had become strongly animated, showing first surprise then pity. He understood at once he was himself the object of her pity. The edifice of his dream fell into ruin, broken to atoms for all time.
"Nonna! Aunt Grathia! you know!" he cried apprehensively, his nervous fingers stretching the old cloth to its full length.
"Eat your supper. Then we'll talk. No, finish eating!" said the old woman, recovering herself. "Don't you like the wine?"
But Anania sprang to his feet. "Speak!" he cried.
"Ah, Holy Lord! what do you expect me to say?" lamented the old woman, sighing and mumbling her lips; "why don't you go on with your supper? We can have a talk afterwards."
He no longer heard or saw.