Of Guido.”
And she laughed.
I threw up my hands in despair. “You’re hopeless,” I said.
“It’s no good ever expecting you to be serious.”
“I’m serious enough, in all conscience,” said she, “but I
conceal it. I let concealment, like a worm in the bud, feed on my damask
cheek. And so—I have plain days.”
“I don’t believe you’ve ever had a plain day in your life,”
asserted I. “You’re the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“I would beg you to observe that you’re sitting here and talking
small-talk, after all,” she laughed, “That isn’t small-talk.
It’s the solemn truth. But look here. I’m not going to let you evade
the question. What have you been unhappy about?”
“I’m not unhappy any more. So what does it matter?”
“I want to know. Tell me.”
“I’ve been puzzling over a dilemma,” she said, “an excessively
perplexed one.”
“Yes? Go on,” said I.
“I’ve been wondering whether I’d better marry Ciccolesi, or retire
into a convent.”
“Ciccolesi!” I cried, in astonishment, in dismay. “Marry
Ciccolesi! You!”
“The Cavalière Ciccolesi. You’ve met him here on Mondays, A brown
man, with curly hair. He’s done me the honour of offering me his hand.
Would you advise me to accept it?”
“Accept it?” I cried. “Good Lord! You must be—have you lost
your reason? Ciccolesi—that automaton—that cardboard
stalking-horse—that Neapolitan jackanapes! You—think of marrying
him!”