"Oh, immensely," she answered, coldly.
"Would you like to see the weighing ground?"
"Yes," she said, taking her shawl and her sunshade.
"I can't take you," said Cesare to his wife, who was gazing imploringly at him. "We should look ridiculous."
But she did not appear resigned.
"We should be ridiculous," he repeated imperiously. "Thank goodness, we're not perpetually on our wedding journey."
They went away, leaving her with a pain in her heart which she felt was killing her. She half closed her eyes, and only one idea was clear in the sorrowful confusion of her mind—that her husband was right. She had broken their agreement; she had promised never to entreat him, never to reproach him. It was weak and wicked of her, she told herself, to have consented to such an agreement—a compact by which her love, her pride, and her dignity were alike bound to suffer. She had made another great mistake when she did that, and this time an irreparable mistake.
"Ah, you are alone?" said Luigi Caracciolo, coming up again.
"Alone."
"Something is troubling you. What is it?"