Another knock was heard at the gate. An old grey-haired man, wearing only a shirt and a cotton cape opened the door and looked out. At the gate stood a good-looking man, who, without asking permission, walked through. The old man muttered something, closed the door and followed him.
The new-comer asked the old man in Italian whether Teresa was at home and received from him an answer in the affirmative. He went quickly towards the house, the door of which stood open. The entrance hall was empty; he went upstairs and knocked at the door; an old, poorly dressed woman opened it and let him in.
The guest entered and found only the stool upon which the Italian was sitting a short time ago. The door leading to the balcony was open. The view from here was so charming that he stopped, looked at it and grew meditative.
The rustling of a dress was heard behind him, and the same woman whom we saw on the balcony advanced slowly. She now wore a voluminous black dress and her hair was negligently tied. Her face bore the same expression of weariness.
She nodded as her guest turned to greet her. They spoke in Italian.
'What is the matter with you?' the stranger asked.
'I am not well! I am dying from longing,' answered the Italian sadly. 'I cannot live here!'
'Where does such despair come from?'
'From the air!' the woman cried, throwing herself on a sofa.
The man sat opposite her on a chair.