Enter once more Giovanna Casacalenda, leaning this time with a certain abandon on the arm of a cavalry officer. Her arm nestled against his coat, her face was raised to his. He, strutting like a peacock in his new uniform, was smiling through his blonde moustache; an ornamental soldier, who had left his sword in the anteroom.
“Well, Giovanna, has the old boy made up his mind?”
“There is something brewing, but nothing settled,” she replied, wearily. “Indeed, it’s a sorry business.”
“All’s well that ends well. Courage, Giovanna; you are enchanting to-night.”
“Am I?” she murmured, looking in his face.
“More than ever ... when I think that old....”
“Don’t think about it, Roberto.... It must be,” she added seriously.
“I know that it must be; as if I hadn’t advised it! Of course your father would not give you to me: it’s no good thinking of it. Besides, he is a very presentable old fellow.”
“Oh! presentable....”
“Well, with the collar of his order under his coat, his bald head, and his white whiskers, he looks dignified enough for a husband, and....”