"Good evening," he murmured. He resolved to explain, then to escape, never to be seen in this house again.
"Take a seat."
He looked at her in astonishment. Yes, it certainly was Margherita. At that moment he hated her.
"Forgive me," he stammered, "I didn't do it intentionally. I'm not a beast; but I saw this—this envelope, and I couldn't help—looking——"
"Is it yours?"
"Yes."
Margherita blushed and seemed confused; but Anania as if freed from a burden began to recover his wits. Wounded pride counselled him to assert the sonnet a jest. But Margherita in her walking dress, with her small waist and her bright green ribbon was so beautiful and so rosy that his hatred all disappeared. He wished he might put the lamp out and be alone with her in the moonlight, he wished he might fall at her feet and name her with sweetest names. But he couldn't, he couldn't! though he saw she also was raising and dropping her eyes in delicious alarm, expecting his cry of love.
"Did your father read it?" he whispered.
"Yes, and he laughed," she answered in the same tone.
"Did he laugh?"