It had been meant, perhaps for centuries, that they two should stand
together that night, speak together as now they were about to speak.
"Signora, buona sera."
"Buona sera, Ruffo."
"The Signorina is not here to-night?"
"I think she is in the house. I think she is tired to-night."
"The Signorina is tired after the Festa, Signora."
"You knew we were at the Festa, Ruffo?"
"Ma si, Signora."
"Did we tell you we were going? I had forgotten."
"It was not that, Signora. But I saw the Signorina at the Festa. Did
not Don Gaspare tell you?"
"Gaspare said nothing. Did he see you?"
She spoke languidly. Quickness had died out of her under the influence
of the night. But already she felt a slight yet decided sense of
relief, almost of peace. She drew that from Ruffo. And, standing very
close to him, she watched his eager face, hoping to see presently in
it the expression that she loved.
"Did he see you, Ruffo?"
"Ma si, Signora. I was with my poor mamma."
"Your mother! I wish I had met her!"
"Si, Signora.
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