Without awaiting his reply, she continued:
“You are, dear Alberto, in a somewhat precarious state of health; or rather, your age is itself a pitfall, surrounded as you are with all the temptations of youth. What with balls, theatres, supper-parties....”
“I never go anywhere,” he mumbled; “I am too afraid of making myself ill.”
“You do well to be prudent. After all, they are but empty pleasures. But at home, in your cold, lonely house, you do indeed need a sweet affectionate companion, who would never weary of tending you, who would never be bored, never grudge you the most tender care. Think of it! what a flood of light, and love, and sweet friendship, within your own walls! Think of the whole life of such a woman, consecrated to you!”
“And where is such an angel to be met with, Lucia?” he said, in an enthusiasm caught from her words, in despair that no such paragon was within reach.
“Alas! Alberto, we are all straining after an impossible ideal. You, too, are among the multitude of dreamers.”
“I wish I could but meet my ideal,” he persisted, with the obstinacy of his weak, capricious nature.
“Seek,” said Lucia, raising her eyes to the ceiling.
“Lucia, do me a favour.”
“Tell me what it is...? I beg your pardon, Galimberti, would you pass me that peacock fan?”