“Alberto mio, are you too warm? How do you feel? Will you have my fan?”
“I don’t feel the heat; I wish I could sit down. Thanks, dear.”
“Lieti, will you find a chair for Alberto; he gets so soon tired. I could not stay here, if he had to stand.”
Andrea sought, until he at last succeeded in finding a seat for Alberto in the next row, between two old ladies who sat behind Caterina.
Alberto, with visible satisfaction, tucked himself between their skirts.
“Are you comfortable now?”
“Very, dearest.”
“Will you have a lozenge?”
“No, by-and-by. Don’t think of me: look about you, chatter, amuse yourself, Lucia.”
“My poor Alberto,” said Lucia—speaking so that only Andrea could hear her—“is a continual source of torment to me. I would give my blood to enrich his.”