“Ask anything you like but that, mia bella. The least light on my eyes gives me the most acute pain—pain that irritates my nerves for hours afterward. Be satisfied with me as I am for the present, though I promise you your wish shall be gratified—”
“When?” she interrupted me eagerly. I stooped and kissed her hand.
“On the evening of our marriage day,” I answered.
She blushed and turned away her head coquettishly.
“Ah! that is so long to wait!” she said, half pettishly.
“Not very long, I hope,” I observed, with meaning emphasis. “We are now in November. May I ask you to make my suspense brief? to allow me to fix our wedding for the second month of the new year?”
“But my recent widowhood!—Stella’s death!”—she objected faintly, pressing a perfumed handkerchief gently to her eyes.
“In February your husband will have been dead nearly six months,” I said, decisively; “it is quite a sufficient period of mourning for one so young as yourself. And the loss of your child so increases the loneliness of your situation, that it is natural, even necessary, that you should secure a protector as soon as possible. Society will not censure you, you may be sure—besides, I shall know how to silence any gossip that savors of impertinence.”
A smile of conscious triumph parted her lips.
“It shall be as you wish,” she said, demurely; “if you, who are known in Naples as one who is perfectly indifferent to women like now to figure as an impatient lover, I shall not object!”