Reclining on a couch with languid grace, clad in a loose wrapper of dove-grey silk, with her hair en déshabille, was the woman I loved.
“Santina!” I whispered, bending over her, uttering a pet name I had bestowed upon her.
She started, and jumped up quickly, half-frightened, exclaiming—
“Cièlo! You, Gasparo—you here?”
“Yes,” I replied, catching her white bejewelled hand and kissing it. “Yes. Why not?”
She snatched away her hand quickly, and passed it wearily across her brow. Her beauty shone with marvellous radiance, for she was only twenty-four—fair-haired, blue-eyed, and with a slim, graceful figure that gave her an almost girlish appearance. I own myself entranced by her loveliness.
“I thought,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation—“I thought my note explained everything. The statue is practically finished, and—”
“No—no!” I cried. “It is still incomplete. You cannot—you shall not leave me, Santina!”
“Pray, why?” she asked indignantly, raising her eyebrows.
“Because—because I love you,” I stammered.