“I beg your pardon, I am talking nonsense. I am a rough fellow, Signorina Altimare. We who are in rude health are apt to regard these matters from a different standpoint. You must make allowances.”
“You are indeed the incarnation of health,” she said, sighing. “I shall never, never forget that waltz you made me dance. I shall never do it again.”
“Ma che! winter will come round again; there will be other balls, and we will dance like fun.”
“I have no strength for dancing.”
“If you are ill, it is your own fault. Why do you always keep your windows closed? The weather is mild and the heat of your room is suffocating; I’ll open them.”
“No,” she exclaimed, placing her hand upon his arm: at its light pressure he desisted: she smiled.
“Do you never dream, Signor Lieti?”
“Never. I sleep soundly, for eight hours, with closed fists, like a child.”
“But with open eyes?”
“Never.”