“But tell me, Caterina, is not this beautiful? Tell me, my placid critic, if my self-imposed task is not a holy one? Is not my mission sublime? Is not the act I am about to perform all but a divine one? Do I not set the crown on my life, with this motto, which henceforward shall be mine: 'All for others, naught for self?’ Am I not giving to others a fine example of altruism? I will have no praise; I will accomplish it in all humility, as one unworthy, but chosen. Give me your opinion, clearly, sincerely, loyally, as you have ever given it me, in all vital moments of my life. To you I can repeat that none have been more vital than is this one. Write me on a scrap of paper: 'Right, Lucia;’ or only 'Lucia, wrong.’ And return, Caterina, return, to one who loves thee as surely no other friend was ever loved.
“Lucia.”
The pure sonorous voice of the reader began to give way towards the last, and grew hoarse as if from fatigue. She folded up the transparent sheets, put them back in their envelope, and waited for her husband to speak. Andrea had sipped two glasses of vermouth, and left half of a third one; his cigar had gone out once or twice.
“What do you think of it, Nini?” he said at last, as if he were waking out of a trance.
“I? I don’t know; I have no ideas of my own. I never had any.”
“And what are you going to write her?”
“What you tell me.”
“I would have you observe,” he said, coldly, “that the Altimare did not tell you to read her letter to me, or to ask for my advice. She does not mention me.”
“But, you see ...” she began, deprecatingly.
“Yes, I see, and I don’t see. Anyhow, it appears to me to be an unfortunate marriage.”