And I laughed harshly. He stared at me in blank surprise. “She make love to you!” he exclaimed, “You jest. She would never do such a thing.”
“Of course not!” I answered, rising and clapping him heavily on the shoulder. “Women never court men, it is quite unheard of; a reverse of the order of nature! You are perfectly safe, my friend; you will certainly win the recompense you so richly merit. Come, let us go and drink coffee with the fair one.”
And arm-in-arm we sauntered out to the veranda in the most friendly way possible. Ferrari was completely restored to good humor, and Nina, I thought, was rather relieved to see it. She was evidently afraid of Ferrari—a good point for me to remember. She smiled a welcome to us as we approached, and began to pour out the fragrant coffee. It was a glorious evening; the moon was already high in the heavens, and the nightingales’ voices echoed softly from the distant woods. As I seated myself in a low chair that was placed invitingly near that of my hostess, my ears were startled by a long melancholy howl, which changed every now and then to an impatient whine.
“What is that?” I asked, though the question was needless, for I knew the sound.
“Oh, it is that tiresome dog Wyvis,” answered Nina, in a vexed tone. “He belonged to Fabio. He makes the evening quite miserable with his moaning.”
“Where is he?”
“Well, after my husband’s death he became so troublesome, roaming all over the house and wailing; and then he would insist on sleeping in Stella’s room close to her bedside. He really worried me both day and night, so I was compelled to chain him up.”
Poor Wyvis! He was sorely punished for his fidelity.
“I am very fond of dogs,” I said, slowly, “and they generally take to me with extraordinary devotion. May I see this one of yours?”
“Oh, certainly! Guido, will you go and unfasten him?”