The lady tried to smile.
"And how sad that smile is too," remarked Banfi, gently embracing the sylph-like lady.
Lady Banfi laid her head on her husband's bosom, threw her arms round his neck, drew down his face to hers, and kissed it.
"That kiss too, how sad it is!"
She turned away to conceal her tears.
"What is it?" asked Banfi, stroking his wife's forehead. "What is the matter? Why are you so pale? What do you want?"
"What do I want?" returned Lady Banfi, turning her streaming eyes up to her husband and sighing deeply. Then she dried her eyes, placed her arm in his, and as if to give another turn to the conversation, led him to her flowers.
"Look at that passion-flower, how withered it is, and yet it is planted in a porcelain vase, and I water it every day with distilled water. But once I forgot to draw up the blinds, and now look how the poor thing has faded. It wants nothing—but sunshine."
"It seems," said Banfi, in a low voice, "as if we were to address each other in the language of flowers."
"What do I want?" repeated Lady Banfi, and leaning on her husband's neck, she burst forth sobbing. "I want my sunshine—your love."