They were on the road to San Niccolo, between Caserta, and Santa Maria. Andrea got down and stood awaiting the victoria, which arrived almost immediately. Francesco maintained all the gravity of a Neapolitan coachman, although he had whipped up his Mecklenburg trotters. Andrea and Alberto leant against the side of the little carriage, chatting with its occupants.
“Are you enjoying yourselves?”
“Oh! the speed intoxicates me,” replied Lucia.
“It is a lovely day,” added Caterina, simply.
“Yes, but windy,” mumbled Alberto, stretching himself with the weariness of having sat doubled up.
“Well, shall we drive on?” inquired Andrea, impatiently.
“I want to make a proposal,” said Alberto; “I submit it to the consideration of the ladies.”
“Well, make haste about it then.”
“Have pity on a poor invalid and take him into the victoria; it is sheltered from the wind, and this nice rug keeps one’s legs warm.”
“And leave Andrea alone, in the phaeton?” observed Caterina.