I saw that I could not produce Angelo's information without deferring the time when I had received it. And so I lied: 'This morning I talked to Angelo about Antonio… I discovered that he's an unbridled libertine… it seems he's extremely well known as such throughout the whole district… he annoys all the women. So I thought that maybe you were right. . although there's still no proof that in your case he acted with intention. . and I took advantage of the cut to get rid of him.'
She said nothing. I went on: 'It's odd, all the same. You'd never think… really, I don't know what women can see in him — bald, yellow, short, fat. . He's not exactly an Adonis.'
'Did you find your paper in the town?' she asked.
'Not exactly. . but I got some foolscap paper — that'll do.' I saw that the subject of Antonio was displeasing to her and willingly changed the conversation, following her lead. 'I shall begin the typing today,' I said. 'I want to do it in the afternoons and evenings as well…. I shall get it done more quickly like that.'
She was silent and went on eating in a composed manner. I talked a little more about my book and about my plans, and then said: 'I'm going to dedicate this book to you, because without your love I should never have written it'; and I took her hand. She raised her eyes and smiled at me. This time, the goodwill of which I seemed to catch a glimpse every now and then in her attitude towards me was so obvious that even a blind man would have noticed it. I was struck dumb, and sat holding her hand, my enthusiasm chilled. She was smiling at me just as a mother smiles at a small child which, at a moment when she does not want to be bothered with it, runs up to her panting and says: 'Mummy, when I'm big I want to be a general.' Then she said: 'And what will the dedication be?'
Mentally I translated this into: 'And which branch of the army d'you want to be in?' I answered, rather embarrassed: 'Oh, something very simple. . for instance, To Leda … or, To my wife. . Why? Would you like a longer dedication?'
'Oh no, I didn't mean anything.'
Her attention was certainly elsewhere. And I, withdrawing my hand, fell into an absorbed silence, gazing through the window at the trees outside. I was thinking that one or other of us ought to break this silence, but nothing happened. Her silence, one would have said, was decisive and final; she seemed shut up in her own thoughts and in no way desirous of coming out of them. In order not to show my disappointment, I tried to joke, and said: 'D'you know what dedication a certain writer once made to his wife? To my wife, without whose absence this book could never have been written.'
She gave a faint smile and I added hastily: 'But of course our case is just exactly the opposite… I could never have written it without your presence.'
This time she did not even smile. I could not restrain myself any longer, and said: 'Well, if you don't want it, we won't put any dedication at all.'