He spoke in a low voice, feeling the oppressive surroundings.
'Not altogether,' she said in her clear, tired voice. 'I had another fainting-fit one night; but very short—at least, I think so.'
'Did no one come to your help?' he said regretfully.
'No; no one knew about it; it was at night, in my own room.... It doesn't matter,' she added, with a slight smile.
'Why did you not go to the country?'
'My father hates the country,' she said. 'I will not leave him here alone.'
'But why do you not go out? It is carnival to-day; why did you not go to see it? Do you want to die of melancholy?'
'Signora Fragalà did ask me, but I hardly know her. I think I would have had to wear a mask. My father does not like such things; he is right.'
She spoke in a gentle, pretty voice, with a tired sound in it. Amati, who had been working all that day by sick-beds while others enjoyed the carnival, felt rested by that harmonious voice and the tired, delicate calmness of the young girl. They were alone, facing each other—around them was a great silence; they hardly looked at each other, but they spoke as if their souls had long lived together, in joy and sorrow.
'Where were you a little ago?' Antonio Amati asked brusquely.