She glanced up at me.
“Cesare! You surely are not vexed? Of course it is only in plays that it happens so!”
“Plays, cara mia, are often nothing but the reflex of real life,” I said. “But let us hope there are exceptions, and that all husbands are not fools.”
She smiled expressively and sweetly, toyed with the flowers I had given her, and turned her eyes again to the stage. I said no more, and was a somewhat moody companion for the rest of the evening. As we all left the theater one of the ladies who had accompanied Nina said lightly:
“You seem dull and out of spirits, conte?”
I forced a smile.
“Not I, signora! Surely you do not find me guilty of such ungallantry? Were I dull in your company I should prove myself the most ungrateful of my sex.”
She sighed somewhat impatiently. She was very young and very lovely, and, as far as I knew, innocent, and of a more thoughtful and poetical temperament than most women.
“That is the mere language of compliment,” she said, looking straightly at me with her clear, candid eyes. “You are a true courtier! Yet often I think your courtesy is reluctant.”
I looked at her in some surprise.