Flaminia did not reply, and an expression of pain was diffused over her beautiful, good-natured face. But again people throng round the fragolata stall and buy strawberries, and Donna Margherita Savelli, quite blonde beneath her hat of white marguerites, gathers the money into a purse of antique cloth of peculiar make, now quite full, whose silver strings she cannot tie.
“See, see, Flaminia, what a lot of money!” she cried joyfully.
Gianni Provana, who had been walking round for about an hour and had approached all the little tables a little superciliously and proudly, without sitting by any one, came and leaned over the stall, exchanging a word first with one and then with another of the lady patronesses, always cold and composed, with his monocle in its place and a slightly mocking smile on his mouth. He had no rose in his buttonhole, and his eyes every now and then settled on those which Maria was smelling long and silently.
“Well, Provana,” said Flaminia Colonna, “haven’t you tasted the strawberries?”
“Not one, I assure you. I don’t want to ruin my health.”
“What a wretch you are! Don’t you like strawberries?”
“They don’t agree with me, Donna Flaminia. I am getting old, and my digestion isn’t so good.”
“Are you in a bad temper, Provana?” Maria asked indifferently.
“Very, Donna Maria, and you too, I think?”
“Oh, I!” she said, with a nonchalant gesture.