While he was still laughing he released her hand and she leaned her
head on it again without haste. She had never looked at him once.
During the rather humiliating silence that ensued he got a leather
cigar case like a small valise out of his pocket, opened it and
looked with critical interest at the six cigars it contained. The
tireless femme-de-chambre set down a tray with coffee cups on the
table. We each (glad, I suppose, of something to do) took one, but
he, to begin with, sniffed at his. Dona Rita continued leaning on
her elbow, her lips closed in a reposeful expression of peculiar
sweetness. There was nothing drooping in her attitude. Her face
with the delicate carnation of a rose and downcast eyes was as if
veiled in firm immobility and was so appealing that I had an insane
impulse to walk round and kiss the forearm on which it was leaning;
that strong, well-shaped forearm, gleaming not like marble but with
a living and warm splendour. So familiar had I become already with
her in my thoughts! Of course I didn't do anything of the sort.
It was nothing uncontrollable, it was but a tender longing of a
most respectful and purely sentimental kind. I performed the act
in my thought quietly, almost solemnly, while the creature with the
silver hair leaned back in his chair, puffing at his cigar, and
began to speak again.
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