“Do you feel the heat, Signorina Lucia?”
“It oppresses me; I think I am feverish. Do you know that peacock feathers are unlucky?”
“I never heard it before.”
“Yes, they are iettatrici, just as branches of heather are lucky. Could you get me some?”
“To-morrow....”
“I was about to say, Lucia,” persisted Alberto, holding on to his idea, “that there is a favour you could do me. Why not write me the beautiful thing you have just said down on paper? I listen to you with delight; you talk admirably. If you would but write these things on a scrap of paper, I would put it in this fold of my pocket book, and every time I opened it I should remember that I have to find my ideal—that’s a wife.”
“You are a dear, silly fellow,” said Lucia, in her good-natured manner. “I will give you something better than this fleeting idea; all these things, and more besides, that are quite unknown to you, I will write you in a letter.”
“When, when?”
“To-day, to-night, or to-morrow morning.”
“No, this evening,”