“I suppose I cannot be quite sure.  But then—­the thing is ridiculous!  A man must be half a poet, he must have sensibilities, ideals, visions, a nervous heart, an exaggerating eye and a mind sensitized like a photographer’s plate to receive impressions!  Do you see me provided with all that stuff?”

He laughed again, somewhat intentionally, for he meant to amuse Gianluca.

“Nor myself either,” answered the latter.  “I am much simpler than you imagine.”

“Are you?  So much the better.  But it makes very little difference, since you are to be happy, after all.  Seriously, I do not believe that this invitation can mean anything else.  If it does—­if she is not in earnest—­” he checked himself.

Gianluca looked at him and did not understand his expression.

“What were you going to say?” asked the younger man, with some curiosity.

“Then take one of the other three!” said Taquisara, roughly, and he rose from his seat and walked to the window.

The Duchessa’s answer to Veronica was dignified and friendly.  After expressing her cordial thanks for the invitation, she went on to say that besides the pleasure it would give her and her son to spend a few days under Veronica’s hospitable roof, she was too well acquainted by hearsay with the splendid climate and situation of Muro to refuse an offer, by accepting which she might contribute much to Gianluca’s recovery, and she went on to speak of the high mountain air and the sunshine of the Basilicata.  There was truth in what she said, of course, and she was too proud not to make the most of it, entirely passing over more personal matters in order to give it the greatest possible prominence.  As for Taquisara, though she guessed that he was almost indispensable to Gianluca in Naples, she made no mention of him.  It would have been easy for her to suggest that he also might be invited, but she suspected that her son could do without him well enough when privileged to see Veronica every day; moreover, he would be in the way, and would probably himself fall in love with his young hostess, who, in her turn, might take a sudden fancy to the handsome Sicilian.

It was not until the things which Veronica hastily ordered from Naples arrived in huge carts from Eboli that she began to reflect seriously upon what she had done under a sudden impulse.  The Duchessa wrote that she should require four or five days to reach Muro, by easy stages, and there was plenty of time to make preparations for receiving the party.  After the letter had come, Veronica spoke to Don Teodoro, who had noticed her extreme preoccupation and was wondering what could have happened.

“I think I understand,” he said, looking at her quietly.  “It is right—­you are young, but the years pass very quickly.”

“What do you mean?” asked Veronica, whose sad face still puzzled him.

“What can their coming mean?” he asked, in reply, with a smile.