“In short, you are satisfied that he should come here three times a week to see me, stay more than an hour, look at me and tell me I am beautiful.”
“I do not believe he has gone beyond that—anyhow I will beg him to come in the evening, when I also am at home.”
“No, that would be to show some mistrust, which, so far, he has not deserved. I will tell my maid to say, once or twice, that I am out, and then he will change the hour of his visits.”
“Do what you think best, dear one, and I will do whatever you desire to calm your fears about this gallant lieutenant. But do you really wish to be more of a royalist than the king, and to disquiet yourself when I am not disquieted?”
“But, Paolo, I am sorry that you are not more concerned. It is not only on account of the lieutenant that I speak, but of all those who at the theatre, at home, and in society think me beautiful, say so, and pay me too much court. In short, my own Paolo, shall I tell you? I should like to see you a little more jealous of me.”
At this point Paolo put down his knife and fork, fell back in his chair, and began to laugh so heartily, so full of merriment, and so loudly that it made her laugh as well.
“A hundred wives complain of the jealousy of their husbands, and I have one who deplores my want of it.”
“No, Paolo, do not laugh. This indifference of yours makes me think you do not love me, and that it does not matter to you at all if others pay me too much attention, and that wounds me.”
“Dear one, dearest of my treasures, to please you I will become jealous too.”