She waited and listened, but not actively, for she did not feel as if Ruffo could ever stand with her in the embrace of such a night, he, a boy, with bright hopes and eager longings, he the happy singer of the song of Mergellina.
And yet, when in a moment she found him standing by her side, she accepted his presence as a thing inevitable.
It had been meant, perhaps for centuries, that they two should stand together that night, speak together as now they were about to speak.
“Signora, buona sera.”
“Buona sera, Ruffo.”
“The Signorina is not here to-night?”
“I think she is in the house. I think she is tired to-night.”
“The Signorina is tired after the Festa, Signora.”
“You knew we were at the Festa, Ruffo?”
“Ma si, Signora.”