“Now he has spoken to me he won’t say anything to me about my fowls; I shall take to my heels.” Contented, with the blood once more running freely through his veins, fanning himself with his gibus, his gloves stuck in his waistcoat, he slipped away by a back staircase which shortened the distance.
“He will say nothing to me ... nothing to me ... nothing to me ... nothing about the fowls,” he hummed, as he crossed the courtyard.
Once in the park, he walked rapidly, but was disappointed in not meeting with any one at the lake of the Castelluccia.
“Where can they have got to?” he murmured, with flagging spirits. He went the round of the wide, oval shrubbery that fringes the little lake. In one corner, in a thin streak of light under the dome of her white, red-lined sunshade, sat Lucia, on a rustic bench. She was alone, and sat with her face turned away from him. Andrea thought he would turn back; yet Caterina could not be far off. So he approached rather shyly, intimidated by the white figure, crowned with blonde rays, their radiance playing on her cheeks and on the rustic background. Lucia did not hear his steps, despite the rustle in the dry leaves. She uttered a cry when he appeared before her.
“Oh! how easily you are frightened!” he said, with an assumed ease of manner.
She held out a trembling hand to him. Andrea, feeling rather awkward, remained standing before her.
“Won’t you sit down?”
“No; I’m not tired.”
“Has it been a long affair?”
“Have you been long waiting?”