‘He says people will come to call, and we must be ready to receive them,’ she said, smiling slightly, with that perfectly impersonal smile which baffled Minna completely. It was as impersonal as the smile one sees on the lips of archaic heads, Greek, Egyptian, Etruscan--though a great deal more beautiful--the smile which is the same on the faces of gods and goddesses, warriors in the last agony or in the height of conflict, nymphs in repose, allegoric figures--everything; a smile conveying no expression, no meaning, and no soul--impersonal. Such was the smile with which Fulvia always spoke of her husband, of his sayings and doings, and of everything connected with him. Minna looked at her as she said that Marchmont expected people to call. She was embarrassed to find an answer; at once vague and polite, to such a statement. Fulvia relieved her by continuing, in the same light and frivolous tone: ‘The county, I suppose he means. You see, signora mia, I am getting quite learned in all your English superstitions. “The county.” I know that is the object of every well-regulated, pious, and aspiring mind in the country in England--to be “in” with the county. And he thinks the county will rally round him--round us. Did you ever hear of such a delusion? But I don’t undeceive him. What would be the use? It occupies his mind, to make plans and cheat himself in this matter. He makes plans as to what he will do when the county has returned from town, and called upon us, and we upon it. He has made me send for some new dresses.’ She laughed lightly, not gaily. ‘He will very soon find that he is not strong enough to stand it, if the county came round him ever so much,’ said Minna deprecatingly. Fulvia shrugged her shoulders. ‘Of course he is weak, in a way. But he would die in the effort to take any place that was open to him, in the right sort of society. And if he is weak, I have to be very strong; of course I am strong, naturally, but, you know, this constant sitting up and these broken nights begin to tell, even upon me.’ ‘Do you not sleep?’ asked Signor Giuseppe abruptly. ‘I could if I might,’ replied Fulvia carelessly. ‘At two-and-twenty one must be very ill indeed to have lost one’s power of sleeping. It isn’t that. You see, night is the worst time with him. He often has pain then, and he sleeps wretchedly. He often could not sleep for months without morphia. They are always calling me up in the middle of the night to go and talk to him or pacify him.’ ‘You ought not to go,’ said Minna. ‘How can you be well if you burn your candle at both ends in that way?’