They looked fixedly at each other as if they were debating something. She cast a glance around her, and then bowed her head and sighed in resignation. Andrea felt inclined to sigh too, there was a weight upon his chest. With a gesture familiar to him, he threw down his hat and passed his hand through his curly hair. She stretched out a little foot whose jewelled buckle shone in the sun.
“You are too beautiful to-day. It is quite insufferable,” said Andrea, with a forced laugh.
“To please Alberto.... I am not fond of dressing extravagantly; I cannot see the pleasure of it. I am, as you know, inaccessible to vanity.”
“I know ... but I think Alberto is a fool.”
“Don’t say so, Signor Andrea; poor Alberto, he is but unhappy.”
“You don’t understand me. Why does he make you dress like that? Every one looks at you. Isn’t he jealous?”
“No; I think not.”
“If I were your husband I should be madly jealous,” he cried.
For the space of a second, Lucia was startled and shrank back. Then she broke into her habitual smile, a smile of voluptuous and seductive melancholy.
“I am always frightening you,” said Andrea, troubled, in a lamentable voice.