“She was a good creature ... such a good creature. So good and gentle and sensible. Yours was an excellent choice.”
“I believe you,” said Andrea, laughing heartily. “Is it true that you always reproached her with a lack of imagination?”
“Did she tell you that too? Yes—sometimes ... a certain dryness....”
“Well, Caterina isn’t troubled with sentimental vagaries. But I like her best as she is. Have you seen her to-night? She’s lovely. If she were not my wife, I should be dancing with her.”
“She is ... or was with her friend....”
“With Lucia Altimare, to be sure.”
“With the Signorina Altimare,” repeated the Professor, gulping down something with difficulty.
“There’s another of your pupils! She must have plagued you, no end, with her compositions, to judge from the tiresome fantastic letters she writes to my wife.”
“The Signorina Altimare wrote divinely,” said the Professor, dryly.
“Eh! maybe,” muttered Andrea, choosing a cigarette. “Have one? No? I assure you they are not bad. I was saying”—he resumed his seat on the couch, and blew the smoke upwards—“that she must have bored you to tears.”