Andrea defended himself phlegmatically; motionless they gazed into each other’s eyes; now and again a cunning thrust, cunningly parried. The audience was absorbed in profound attention.
“Su, su, on, on,” Lucia cried, under her breath, trembling in her eagerness, and crushing her cambric handkerchief with nervous fingers.
The assault went on as calmly and scientifically as a game of chess, ending in two or three master-thrusts, miraculously parried. The two fencers, as they shook hands, smiled at each other. They were worthy antagonists. The applause which followed was wrung from the audience by the perfection of their method.
“Applaud your husband! Are you not proud of him?”
“Yes,” replied Caterina, blushing.
A visitor entered the box, it was Alberto Sanna, a cousin of Lucia’s.
“Good-morning, Signora Lieti. What a triumph for your lord and master!”
Caterina bowed and smiled. Lucia held out two fingers to her cousin, who kept them in his. He was a rather stunted little creature, slightly bent in his tight overcoat; his temples were hollow, his cheekbones high, and his moustache thin and scanty; yet he had the air of a gentleman. His appearance was sickly and his smile uncertain. He spoke slowly, hissing out his syllables as if his breath were short. He informed the ladies that cold was bad for him; that he could not get warm, even in his fur coat; that he had only looked in, just by a mere accident, to avoid the cold outside. He was fortunate in having met them. He entreated them, for charity’s sweet sake, not to send him away. He added:
“I met your Professor of History, Lucia. He was walking up and down, smoking. Why don’t he come in?”
“I don’t know. Probably because he doesn’t care to see the fencing.”