“Are you here, Maria?”
“I am here, as you see,” she replied dully.
He had returned suddenly as usual, entering the house and crossing all the rooms to reach her, as if he always wanted to surprise a visit, a secret colloquy, or the furtive scribbling of a letter. He was still in hunting costume, with his maroon velvet coat spattered and discoloured, a big waistcoat with full pockets with bone buttons, and the breeches stuffed in a pair of dirty riding-boots. Standing there, his face was more than ever gloomy and distrustful, on his temple his hair was completely white, which threw into stronger relief the olive darkness of his face.
“What are you doing here, Maria?”
“Nothing,” she replied dully.
“Were you sleeping?”
“I have dozed.”
“Didn’t you go to the races with Carolina della Marsiliana?”
“No; it rained. The races have been postponed.”
“I know. I was told on entering Rome.”