This with the same obstinately fixed countenance and downward look.
“You are not very pleased, I think, at the prospect of my happiness?” I asked, banteringly.
He glanced up for an instant, then as quickly down again.
“If one could be sure that the illustrissimo eccellenza was indeed happy, that would be a good thing,” he answered, dubiously.
“And are you not sure?”
He paused, then replied firmly:
“No; the eccellenza does not look happy. No, no, davvero! He has the air of being sorrowful and ill, both together.”
I shrugged my shoulders indifferently.
“You mistake me, Vincenzo. I am well—very well—and happy! Gran Dio! who could be happier? But what of my health or happiness?—they are nothing to me, and should be less to you. Listen; I have something I wish you to do for me.”
He gave me a sidelong and half-expectant glance. I went on: