Casanova, repressing an impulse to follow her with his eyes, enquired:
"Is Signora Amalia coming with us?"
"No, Chevalier," answered Olivo. "She has a number of things to attend
to in the house; and besides, this is the girls' lesson time."
"What an excellent housewife and mother! You're a lucky fellow, Olivo!"
"I tell myself the same thing every day," responded Olivo, with tears in
his eyes.
They passed by the gable end of the house. Marcolina's window was still
open; the pale, diaphanous gown showed up against the dark background of
the room. Along the wide chestnut avenue they made their way on to the
road, now completely in the shade. Leisurely, they walked up the slope
skirting the garden wall. Where it ended, the vineyard began. Between
tall poles, from which purple clusters hung, Olivo led his guest to the
summit. With a complacent air of ownership, he waved towards the house,
lying at the foot of the hill. Casanova fancied he could detect a female
figure flitting to and fro in the turret chamber.
The sun was near to setting, but the heat was still considerable. Beads
of perspiration coursed down Olivo's cheeks, but Casanova's brow showed
no trace of moisture.
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