Sicilian said nothing, but proceeded to arrange all the invalid's
small belongings near him,--his books, his cigarettes,--for he sometimes
smoked a little,--and the stimulant he took, and a few wild flowers
which Elettra renewed every morning. Gianluca drew a breath of
satisfaction when all was done. He really felt a little better, and by
Taquisara's care had suffered less than usual in the moving. His father
and mother had been in to see him as usual, before he was up, and before
they went out for their daily walk. Veronica would not come yet, but he
had the true invalid's pleasure in anticipating the coming of a
well-loved woman. As often happens in such cases he seemed quite
unconscious of his approaching danger.

He was not surprised when Don Teodoro came in, a little later, and the
two very soon fell into conversation together. Taquisara presently went
away and left them, as he often did when they began to talk of books.
Half an hour had not passed since his meeting with Veronica, but as he
again entered the room where they had met, he found her standing before
the window, looking out, and twisting her handkerchief slowly with both
her hands. She started when she heard him come in, and she turned her
head to see who it was that had opened the door. To go on, he had to
pass near her, and she kept her eyes on his face as he approached her.

"How is he?" she asked in a voice hardly recognizable as her own.

She had an agonized look, and she raised her handkerchief to her mouth
quickly, and held it, almost biting it, while he answered her.

"He says that he feels better. Don Teodoro is there. He has just come.
Is there anything that I can do?"

She shook her head, still holding the handkerchief to her lips, and
again looked out of the window. He waited a moment longer and then
passed on, leaving her alone. He saw that she was half mad with anxiety,
and he neither trusted himself to speak, nor believed that speaking
could be of any use. He went down to the lower bastion, where he could
be alone, and for a long time he walked steadily up and down, trying
hard to think of nothing, and sometimes counting his steps as he walked,
in order to keep his mind from itself.

He did not idealize the woman he loved, for he was not a man of ideals,
nor of much imagination. Such defects as she might have, he did not
see, and if he had seen them he would have been indifferent to them. To
such a man, loving meant everything and adm