She kept her veil down still; Fernandino's bouquet lay in her
lap and from time to time she raised it to her face to inhale the
perfume while she answered the Marchesa's questions. Andrea was right;
there were tones in her voice exactly like Elena's. He was seized with
impatient curiosity to see her face--its expression and colouring.
'Manuel,' she was saying, 'has to leave on Friday. He will come back for
me later on.'
'Much later, let us hope,' said Donna Francesca cordially. 'A month, at
the very least, eh, Don Manuel? The best plan would be to wait and all
go on the same day. We are at Schifanoja till the first of November.'
'If my mother were not expecting me, nothing would delight me more than
to stay with you. But I have promised faithfully to be in Sienna for the
17th of October--Delfina's birthday.'
'What a pity! on the 20th there is the Festival of the Donations at
Rovigliano--so very beautiful and peculiar.'
'What is to be done? If I do not keep my promise, my mother will be
dreadfully disappointed. She adores Delfina.'
The husband took no part whatever in the conversation, he seemed a very
taciturn man. He was of middle height, inclined to be stout and bald,
and his skin of a most peculiar hue--something between green and violet,
in which the whites of the eyes gleamed as they moved like the enamel
eyes of certain antique bronze heads.
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