“I think so; at least, it seemed long to me;” she smiled a melancholy smile. “How beautiful it is here, Lieti!”
“Oh! beautiful. What a fool I must look in evening clothes in the midst of this green country!”
“No; for this country is artificial, it savours of powder and patches. The branches of these trees look as if they had been trimmed with scissors. Oh! who will give me Nature—real great, omnipotent Nature?”
“When your voice falls in longing, it is enchanting,” said Andrea, with admiration in his eyes.
“Do not you long for real country?”
“Eh! it is not always poetic. Sometimes it is barren, at others it smells too much of lime. But I know where to find your ideal; the dark wood, the narrow paths, the lake hidden in the thicket....”
“Dio! ... You know where all that is, Andrea!” And she crossed her hands on her bosom, her voice trembling from desire.
“Here, in the English Garden.”
“Far, far, far?”
“No; near, three-quarters of an hour’s walk.”