“Till then,” I replied, turning red, “I shall be at home and alone.”
“Very well,” rejoined he, taking up a newspaper, while I silently went to a seat near the open window.
I compared the conversation which had just taken place with the one I imagined the evening before. I remembered the effect of the very name of her whose visit I was now expecting, and I felt inclined to both laugh and cry. In a word, I was nervous and agitated, and doubtless manifested my uneasiness and irritation more than I wished.
Lorenzo raised his eyes, and looked at me a moment.
“What are you thinking of, Ginevra?”
“Are you quite sure,” said I abruptly, “that this Donna Faustina is not a jettatrice?”
He rose and somewhat impatiently threw his paper on the table. But quickly overcoming himself, he said calmly:
“Do you find any evidence in what I related last evening that she ever brought ill-luck to any one?”
“If it is not she,” I exclaimed quickly, “I hope, at least, you do not think....”
I was about to add, “that it is I,” but I stopped on seeing the cloud that came over his face.