“I shall play at patience, with cards,” said Alberto. “But perhaps I shan’t, after all. As to me, when Lucia stays indoors....”
“I shall work at my embroidery,” said she, suddenly sobered.
“And I shall sew,” said Caterina.
“How you will amuse yourselves!” said Andrea, rising from his seat. “Come out driving, let’s have the daumont.”
“No,” said Lucia. He understood her. What would be the good of that drive? They would still be four people together. He would have no chance of telling Lucia that he loved her.
“I am half inclined to stay here to count your yawns,” he growled, savagely.
“If you stay with me, then I’ll say you’re a good fellow,” said Alberto.
He stayed with them: he hoped, he kept on hoping. But when he saw Alberto seated at the little table with his pack of cards, Caterina near the window with her basket of linen, Lucia on the sofa with the interminable canvas between her fingers, drawing her thread slowly, without raising her eyes, he thought it would never, never be; and gloom and disappointment overwhelmed him. Those two obstacles, pacific, well-meaning and motionless, who smilingly let drop an occasional remark, were insurmountable. Never, no, never, would he be able to speak to Lucia. He gave it up. He had neither the energy to go, nor the patience to stay in that close room.
“I am going away to sleep,” he said, as if he were about to accomplish a meritorious action.
“What are you embroidering to-day?” inquired Alberto of Lucia.