Sometimes she lowered her eyes and said, “I have been writing.”
“Who to, Nini?”
“To my aunt; to Giuditta, at school; to Giulietta, the maid at home; to Matteo, the caretaker at Centurano....”
“And to others?”
“To others besides.”
Without naming her, they instantly understood each other. They had lately avoided mentioning her. Caterina felt the profound antipathy of Andrea, but neither ventured to combat or complain of it. She had been to call on Lucia, alone. The latter had received her most warmly, smothering her with kisses, asking her loving questions, confusing her with those she read in her eyes: not a word of Andrea, to Caterina’s infinite relief. Inwardly, she suffered from the species of hatred which existed between the two persons she loved best. At last, one day when Andrea returned to the hotel, he found Caterina more preoccupied than usual. She heard the news that the Prime Minister would honour the Agricultural Exhibition with his presence, without excessive transport; she murmured a gentle but absent “Yes” to her husband’s suggestion that they should spend three days in Florence, returning thence to Naples.
“Ohé! Nini, what is the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t tell stories, little Nini. They are visible on your nose. There is one crawling, his legs are no longer than a spider’s, but he is black and ugly! What is it, Nini?”
“Nothing, nothing....” she said, in self-defence.