“The Signorina Altimare is a suffering, interesting being. She is so very unhappy,” persisted the Professor, with his cravat all awry, in the heat of his defence.
Andrea gazed at him with curiosity; then a faint smile parted his lips.
“She goes to balls, however,” he replied, quietly enjoying the study of the Professor.
“She does. She is obliged to, and it changes the current of her thoughts. You see she never dances.”
“Bah! because nobody insists on her doing so. What do you bet that, if I go and ask her, she won’t dance the waltz with me?”
“Nothing would induce her to dance, she is subject to palpitations. It might make her faint.”
“Che! If I give her a turn, you’ll see how she’ll trot! No woman has ever fainted in my arms....” He stopped short from sheer pity. Galimberti, who had turned from yellow to red, and stood nervously clutching at his hat, looked at Andrea with so marked an expression of pain and anger, that he felt ashamed of tormenting him.
“But she is too thin, too angular; we’ll leave her alone. Or you try it, Professor; you dance with her.” With a friendly gesture he took him by the arm, to lead him away.
“I don’t dance,” mumbled Galimberti, and his big head sank on his breast. “I don’t know how to dance.”