“What shall you put in it to-day, Lucia?”
“An onion, Alberto.”
“An onion, an onion: oh! how amusing! yesterday a pansy and to-day an onion! How shall you work it?”
“In flame-coloured silk.”
Next day: “Oh! Lucia, tell me what you are going to put in it?”
“An oaten pipe.”
“O Dio! what an eccentricity! What a mad drawing-room we shall have! People will stand about, trying to find out the meaning of it, without thinking of sitting down.”
They chatted a little when they worked. Caterina cut out at the large table, and Lucia, in whose taste she had the utmost confidence, advised her. Lucia had become more demonstrative in her intercourse with Caterina. She questioned her, and made her confessions that sometimes brought the quick blush to her cheek, but only when they were alone. When they remained indoors, Lucia retired to her room an hour before dinner.
“What can she be doing at this hour?” inquired Andrea of his wife.
“I do not know. Probably she prays.”