Her large eyes softened like the pleading eyes of a tame fawn.
“Ay, yes!” and she smiled with expressive tenderness, “except love. But when one has both love and wealth, what a paradise life can be!”
“So great a paradise,” I assented, “that it is hardly worth while trying to get into heaven at all! Will you make earth a heaven for me, Nina mia, or will you only love me as much—or as little—as you loved your late husband?”
She shrugged her shoulders and pouted like a spoilt child.
“Why are you so fond of talking about my late husband, Cesare?” she asked, peevishly; “I am so tired of his name! Besides, one does not always care to be reminded of dead people—and he died so horribly too! I have often told you that I did not love him at all. I liked him a little, and I was quite ill when that dreadful monk, who looked like a ghost himself, came and told me he was dead. Fancy hearing such a piece of news suddenly, while I was actually at luncheon with Gui—Signore Ferrari! We were both shocked, of course, but I did not break my heart over it. Now I really do love you—”
I drew nearer to her on the couch where she sat, and put one arm round her.
“You really do?” I asked, in a half-incredulous tone; “you are quite sure?”
She laughed and nestled her head on my shoulder.
“I am quite sure! How many times have you asked me that absurd question? What can I say, what can I do—to make you believe me?”
“Nothing,” I answered, and answered truly, for certainly nothing she could say or do would make me believe her for a moment. “But how do you love me—for myself or for my wealth?”