“Oh, be quiet!” replied Biagio, shaking himself. “Have you come even out here to annoy me? How did you know?”
Scossi then explained the reasons for his coming, told him that it was neither just nor fair for him to leave that poor woman yonder in her embarrassment, and that his presence at the pension was urgently required for three or four days at least. Biagio Speranza grew discouraged.
Suddenly there arrived at a run, her face crimson, a straw hat on her beautiful, ruffled, tawny hair, Nannetta, the same woman whom Signor Martinelli had seen coming out the café that evening.
“Well, Biagio? Oh, pardon me, how do you do, sir—”
“Good day, my dear,” replied Scossi, holding out his hand.
But Nannetta held her own in the air.
“I can not. They are dripping wet. If you like, with his permission, you may give me a little kiss here.” And she offered her flaming cheek.
“Do you permit?” asked Scossi, moved to compunction. “Her hands are wet—”
“One only,” replied Biagio gloomily. “There is nothing to be said. I shall have to go.”
“Is your wife sending for you?” asked Nannetta sadly, her cheek still upturned, upon which Scossi was all the while imprinting a series of soft kisses. “Oh, that is enough, sir; one only, I beg of you. Your wife, then?”