“What is it all about? Am I so ill, then?”
“No, Alberto, no. The season is trying to delicate lungs.”
“Well, then, what of it? But I see that you are so good as to be anxious about me. Thank you, dear. But for you I should have been dead by this time.”
“Do not say that—do not say it.”
“Now she is in tears, my poor little thing! I was joking. What a fool I am! My stupid chaff makes you cry. I entreat you not to cry any more.”
“I am not crying, Alberto mio.”
“Have a sip of my coffee.”
“No, thank you, I don’t care for any.”
“Have some; do have some.”
“I am going to take the Sacrament to-day, about one.”