She followed him. She was tired. Festivals were few in her life, and the many excitements of this long day had told upon her, but her fatigue was the fatigue of happiness. They sat down on a wooden bench set against the outer wall of the house. No one else was sitting there, but many people were passing to and fro, and they could see the lamps round the "Musica Leoncavallo," and hear it fighting and conquering the twitter of the shepherd boy's flute and the weary wheezing of the organ within the house. A great, looming darkness rising towards the stars dominated the humming village. Etna was watching over the last glories of the fair.
"Have you been happy to-day, Maddalena?" Maurice asked.
"Si, signore, very happy. And you?"
He did not answer.
"It will all be very different to-morrow," he said.
He was trying to realize to-morrow, but he could not.
"We need not think of to-morrow," Maddalena said.
She arranged her skirt with her hands, and crossed one foot over the other.
"Do you always live for the day?" Maurice asked her.
She did not understand him.