She raised her eyes, looked at me, and asked, with simplicity and perhaps without any intended irony: 'Is your work finished, then?'

'No,' I lied, 'but I can't look at you without loving you and without wanting to kiss you. . To hell with my work.'

As I said this I pulled her by the arm so that she leant over in my direction. She resisted, frowning, with an air half serious, half tempted, and said briefly, in a voice full of love: 'You're crazy'; then turning suddenly, gave me the kiss I had asked for, abruptly, impetuously, but with sincerity. We kissed in breathless haste, crushing our lips violently against each other's; it was like the kiss of two ingenuous but ardent youngsters who are not yet expert in love and who spoil their own enjoyment by nervousness and impatience. And I, in that fleeting kiss — which I seemed to be snatching rather than merely receiving from my wife's lips — felt that I had in truth gone back to my boyhood and that I was in danger of being surprised by a stern mother, instead of a devoted old servant who would be both embarrassed and sympathetic. Immediately after the kiss we became composed again, just like two children; she serene and quiet, I a little out of breath. But the maid did not come; and I looked at my wife and then I managed to laugh, both at myself and at her, and I laughed and slapped her hand. This made her suspicious and she asked: 'Why are you laughing?'

'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I'm not laughing at you. . I'm laughing because I'm happy.'

With her eyes lowered, and in a calm, conversational tone, as she went on eating, she asked: 'And what is it that makes you so happy?'

This time I could resist no longer and I said, ingenuously: 'For the first time in my life I have everything I wanted, and what's more — a thing which is much rarer — I know that I have it. . '

'What was it you wanted?'

'For years and years,' I said, 'I've wanted to love a woman and to be loved by her in return. . Well, now I love you, and you, I believe, love me. For years and years I've had an ambition to write something lasting, something alive, something poetical. . Now that I've finished my story, I can say that I've achieved that too.'

I had decided not to speak to my wife about the story until I had finished copying it. But my joy was so great that I couldn't resist it. Her reaction to the news surprised me, although I knew that she loved me and took a lively interest in all that I did. 'You've finished?' she exclaimed, with a delight that was flattering because sincere, 'you've finished?' — and her voice had a clear ring in it which enchanted me — 'Oh, Silvio — and you never told me anything about it!'

'I didn't tell you about it,' I explained, 'because, although in the strict sense of the word I've finished, I've still got to type out the manuscript… I shan't really have finished till the day when I've finished the typing.'