Galimberti sat listening to them, while they exchanged lover-like glances, gazing at the red frame which held Caterina’s portrait.
“I ought to go ... I must go ...” he kept thinking. He felt as if he were nailed to his chair; as if he had no strength to rise from it. He was miserable, for he had just discovered that there was mud on one of his boots. It appeared to him that Lucia was always looking at that boot. It was his martyrdom, yet he dared not withdraw from it.
“And so the thought came to me amid so many others, that you, Alberto, need a woman about you.”
“What sort of a woman—a housekeeper? They are selfish and odious, I can’t abide them.”
“Why, no, I mean a wife.”
“Do you think so...? How strange! I should never have thought of it.”
“But the woman whom you need is not like any other. You need an exceptional woman.”
“True, how true! I want an exceptional wife,” said Alberto, willing to be persuaded.
“An exceptional woman. Don’t you agree with me, Professor?”
He started in the greatest perturbation. What could she be wanting of him, now?