“Are you thinking now, Signor Andrea?”
Her hand hung slack at her side. In jest he knitted his little finger for a moment in hers. There was a long silence.
“What were you thinking of just now?” asked Lucia, in her low tender tones.
“I do not wish to tell you. How white your hand is, and long and narrow! Look, what an enormous hand mine is!”
“That day at the tournament your hand did wonders.”
“Really...!” He reddened from pleasure.
Again they were silent. She drew her hand away and played with her violets. He half closed his eyes, but never took them off the pure pale face, with its delicate colouring, its superb magnetic eyes with pencilled brows, and the half-opened mouth that was as red as a pomegranate flower. He sank into a state of vague contemplation, in which a fascinating feminine figure was the only thing visible on a cloudy background.
“Say something to me, Signora Lucia?”
“Why?”
“I want to hear you speak; you have an enchanting voice.”