"Doretta, come here and say how do you do to the lady."
"No, no—let her be, let her be! Children catch cold so easily—you had better shut the window. I suppose there is no hope of seeing you to-day?"
"Look at the condition of the streets!"
"Oh, you men . . . you men! . . . The stronger sex . . . but no matter. Au revoir!"
"Au revoir."
The two windows are closed simultaneously, but this time Signora Evelina does not disappear. She is sitting there, close to the window, and it snows so lightly now that her wonderful profile is outlined as clearly as possible against the pane. Good heavens, how beautiful she is!
Signor Odoardo walks up and down the room, in the worst of humors. He feels that it is wrong not to go and see the fascinating widow, and that to go and see her would be still more wrong. The cloud has settled again upon Doretta's forehead, the same cloud that darkened it in the morning.
Not a word is said of La Fontaine's fable. Instead, Signor Odoardo grumbles irritably:
"This blessed room is as cold as ever."
"Why should n't it be," Doretta retorts with a touch of asperity, "when you open the window every few minutes?"
