“Let me; do, do let me, I am a brute ... I am a brute!” he persisted. When he had finished, he turned her round and round like a child.
“Now you’re dry, Nini. What a sweet smell you have about you. Is it your lace tie or your skin? I’ll go and dress. Go and see if the macaroni patties will be done in time.”
She went away, but returned immediately to listen at his door, in case he should call her. She could hear him moving to and fro in his dressing-room, puffing and blowing and in the highest spirits. He was throwing his wet boots against the wall, tramping about like a horse, or halting to look at his clothes; singing the while to an air of his own composition:
“Where are the socks ... the socks ... the socks.... Here you are. Now I want a scarf to bind up my inexpressibles. Here’s the scarf.... Now where’s my necktie?”
Then there was silence.
“Have you found the necktie, Andrea? May I come in?” she asked shyly.
“Oh! you are there! And here is the necktie.... I’m ready. Call Cecchina to take away these wet things while we are at dinner.”
He opened the door and came out with a face red from much rubbing. He looked taller and broader in indoor dress. His curly leonine head, with its low forehead, blue eyes, and bushy auburn moustache, was firmly set on a full, massive, and very white throat. Round it he wore a white silk tie and no collar. His broad shoulders expanded under the dark blue cloth of his jacket, his mighty chest swelled under the fine linen of his shirt. The whole figure, ponderous in its strength, was redeemed from awkwardness by a certain high-bred ease and by the minute care of his person, visible in the cut of his hair and the polish of his well-tended nails.
“H’m, Caterina, are we going to dine to-day?”
“Dinner is on the table.”