“But the third, Teresa, ought to be tiny, tiny—so, look,” and he opened the palm of his hand to show the length that this third partner in their happiness ought to be. This discourse, however, did not please Teresa, and after a forced smile she kissed Carlo and gave him a pat on the cheek, and said in a shame-faced way, and with an unsteady voice: “You know it is not my fault.” “I know it is not the fault of either of us, we love each other so much. But do not worry any more about it; we can be happy even if we are only two.” And from that day they had never referred again to the third being, who was to be a span long, and was to share their felicity. But both of them thought of it constantly. It was not a cloud which covered the sun, but a light mist which dimmed it. One day when he was in his study busy writing she ran in as if she had something very urgent to say to him; then instead, when halfway in the room, she stood still. “What is it, Teresa?” “I have good and delightful news for you.” “Really?” She smiled and blushed, and with little timid, hesitating steps, as if she had some fault to confess, she came close to the writing table, embraced Carlo, and hid her head on his shoulder. She still kept silence and her face was hidden. In vain he endeavoured to move her away that he might see her face. He thought he guessed, but still feared he might be deceiving himself. “Is it true, then, really true, my dear, dear Teresa?” With a sudden courage she took one of his hands and placed it on her heart. “Listen, Carlo, there are three of us.” He rose suddenly, agitated, embraced her, and kissed her a hundred times on the eyes, cheeks, hair, mouth, everywhere, interrupting his kisses with sighs of joy. “Thanks, thanks, my adored one.” They continued to be happy, and to call themselves so, without fear that God would know it, consider them in contravention, and murmur in their ears: _You will be prosecuted._ ⁂ They had not seen each other for eight days! He had been obliged to leave her alone on account of urgent business. Eight days—that is eight centuries! He had written eight times, she ten, for on one day which seemed longer than the others she had written three times, in the three different languages she knew. In the last, written in English in the evening, she finished with these words: “Why do I not know seven languages? Then I should have written seven times to you to-day, because the same thing said in different languages seems different, and renews my joy in thinking of you. I should like to say I love you in all the languages in the world....” At last he telegraphed his arrival, and she had been an hour at the station, walking up and down by the deserted rails. She looked at her watch, then at the station clock; it seemed to her as if it must have stopped, so much like centuries did those minutes appear. With her most pleasant smile she went to one of the officials: “Is the train from Genoa late?”