They went upstairs to the first floor, where the waiter who conducted them opened the door of an apartment consisting of a bedroom and sitting-room—a big bedroom, a tiny sitting-room—both having balconies that looked off over the country, and there the waiter left them alone.
Each of them was pale, silent, confused.
She looked round. The sitting-room was vulgarly furnished with a green sofa, two green easy-chairs, a centre-table covered with a nut-coloured jute tablecloth, and a marble console. The thought of the many strangers who had inhabited it inspired her with a sort of shame. Then she glanced into the bedroom. It was very large, with two beds at the farther end, a dressing-table, a sofa, and a wardrobe. These pieces of furniture seemed lost in the vast bare-looking chamber. It gave her a shudder merely to look into it; and yet again she blushed.
She raised her eyes to Giustino's, and she noticed anew that he was gazing at her with an expression of great sadness.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
He did not answer. He sat down and buried his face in his hands.
"Tell me what it is," she insisted, trembling with anger and anguish.
He remained silent. Perhaps he was weeping behind his hands.
"If you don't tell me what it is, I'll go back to Naples," she said.