“Yes, about ten minutes.” How cruel those four words were! How she condemned in her heart Italian railways, engine drivers, directors, and shareholders, who by their negligence had inflicted another ten minutes upon her anxious waiting. She drew near the kiosk of newspapers and books, but without looking at anything; she bought flowers, but did not smell them; she kept her eyes turned toward Genoa, strained her ears, bit her lips, but the train came not. In a moment a thousand fears flashed through her mind—the remembrance of the last collision, the many killed and injured———— She did not dare to go to the same official. She went to another, timid and full of fears. This time she did not succeed in smiling. “Is the train from Genoa still late?” “Yes, ten minutes; it will be here in five minutes now.” Shortly after a whistle was heard, then a low and heavy vibration of the rails, a great column of smoke appeared, then the heavy wheels rolled under the roof of the station. She ran from one carriage to another, impatient and anxious; he was not there. Travellers alighted in crowds. He was not there. Her heart beat fast, she did not know what to do. She turned her back to the train and walked toward the station master without knowing what she ought to say, or even could say to him. But she had no need of him, for she felt herself clasped closely by two loving arms. It was he, it was Carlo! The eight days of agony, the seventy minutes of anxiety, all were forgotten, all submerged in a sea of infinite sweetness. They said nothing until they were in the carriage, and whilst they drove to their happy home she, kissing him a hundred times, exclaimed: “Do you know, I love you more than you love me?” “But why?” “Because I have written ten times to you, and you only eight times to me.” “Well, next time I will write twenty times to you.” “No, no. I do not want even one letter. Another time, if you will let me, I will come with you. I will not be away from you; I cannot bear it.” ⁂ They were seated at table at the usual hour, calm and happy, with no one but themselves. They never sat facing each other, but side by side, because even during meal times they felt the necessity of caressing and kissing each other. Toward the middle of dinner she said, all at once, as if the words had been held back, and were now forced from her by some internal and invisible spring: “Do you know that Lieutenant B. came again at five this evening to pay me a visit?” “Well?” “It is the third time in one week.” “Indeed!” “Yes, he always comes at the hours when he knows you are at the office.” “Perhaps he is not free at any other hour.” “Listen, Paolo, you take it too indifferently. I think, however, that in this case you ought to think more of it.” “But what does the lieutenant say to you?”