“Aren’t you well?”
“I am always well. I am bored and worried.”
Lucia looked at him as if to question him. She was so fascinating that morning, with the dark shadow under her eyes that lent them so much expression, her vivid lips that contrasted with the pallor of her face, and the air of delicious languor of a woman who loves and is beloved. In one sad, passionate glance behind Alberto’s back, they spoke to and understood each other. He was sitting between them, sprawling in an armchair, with no intention of moving. When he realised this, a spirit of contradiction made Andrea long more ardently than ever to tell Lucia what she was to him. Only once to whisper it in her ear, as in the English Garden; once only, and he could have borne to go away. But say it to her he must; the words sprang to his lips, and it seemed as if Lucia read them there; her eyes dilated, and her expression became alternately rapt and troubled. Meanwhile Alberto yawned, stretched out his arms, drew a long breath to find out if there was any obstruction, and coughed slightly to try his breathing capacity. Now Andrea’s only wish was that Alberto should go away for a moment, to the window or back to his room, so that he, Andrea, might tell Lucia that he loved her. Ma che! Her husband continued to sprawl at full length, staring at the ceiling—lolling, with one leg over the other; anything but move. Lucia pretended to read the paper that had come by post, but her hands trembled from nervousness.
“What is there in the newspaper?”
“Nothing.”
“As usual: there never is anything. Does it amuse you?”
“Immensely;” her voice hissed between her teeth.
“Why don’t you talk to us? Here is Andrea, who hasn’t been out. The first day that he stays at home, you are absorbed in the Pungolo.”
“I have forgotten to bring your box of lozenges with me,” she said, pensively.
“Here it is,” said Alberto, drawing it from his pocket.