“Alas! Alberto, we are all straining after an impossible ideal. You, too, are among the multitude of dreamers.”
“I wish I could but meet my ideal,” he persisted, with the obstinacy of his weak, capricious nature.
“Seek,” said Lucia, raising her eyes to the ceiling.
“Lucia, do me a favour.”
“Tell me what it is...? I beg your pardon, Galimberti, would you pass me that peacock fan?”
“Do you feel the heat, Signorina Lucia?”
“It oppresses me; I think I am feverish. Do you know that peacock feathers are unlucky?”
“I never heard it before.”
“Yes, they are iettatrici, just as branches of heather are lucky. Could you get me some?”
“To-morrow....”
“I was about to say, Lucia,” persisted Alberto, holding on to his idea, “that there is a favour you could do me. Why not write me the beautiful
