It was a complete bedroom set made out of walnut; on the bed was a broad fringed bedspread, in one corner of the room stood an enormous vase filled with magnificent artificial flowers, and on the wall above it a number of photographs were arranged with evident care. It was, in fact, quite luxurious.

He began looking at the photographs. There was an old man who had struck a statesmanlike attitude, and was resting his arm on a pile of papers. Emilio could not help smiling. “That is my godfather,” Angiolina explained. There was a young well-dressed man, but looking rather like a navvy out on holiday, with an eager expression, and a good deal of character in his face. “That is my sister’s godfather, and this is the godfather of my youngest brother,” and she pointed to the portrait of another young man, smaller in build and of a more refined appearance.

“Are there any more of them?” asked Emilio lightly. But the joke died on his lips, for among the other photographs he suddenly caught sight of two faces that he knew: Leardi and Sorniani! Sorniani, who even in the photograph looked as grim and jaundiced as ever, appeared, from his post on the wall, to be still saying horrible things about Angiolina. Leardi’s photograph was the best; the camera had fulfilled its true function in reproducing every degree of light and shade, and Leardi was as handsome as if he had been portrayed in the natural hues of life. He was standing very much at his ease, not leaning against a table, but with his gloved hands slightly extended as if in the act of entering a lady’s boudoir for an intimate tête-à-tête. He looked down on Emilio with an almost protective air, very becoming to his handsome young face, and Emilio was obliged to turn away his eyes in order to hide his vexation and envy.

Angiolina did not immediately comprehend why Emilio’s brow had become so overcast. It was the first time that he had so crudely betrayed his jealousy. “I don’t at all like finding all these men in your bedroom.” Then when he saw the look of bewilderment that his reproof produced on her innocent face, he softened the severity of his remark. “It is just what I was saying to you a few nights ago. It makes a very bad impression for you to be seen with people like these round you, and it may do you a great deal of harm. The very fact of knowing them is compromising in itself.”

At once a look of great amusement lit up her face, and she declared she was delighted to have made him jealous. “Jealous of people like that!” she cried, then she became serious again and said with a reproving air: “But I should like to know what opinion you have of me!” He was just about to reassure her when she made a false move. “Listen, I will give you not only one but two of my photos,” and she ran to the chest of drawers to get them out. So all of them already had a photograph of Angiolina then; she had just told him so herself, but with such an air of ingenuous innocence that he did not dare to upbraid her with it. But worse was to come.

He forced himself to smile, and began looking at the two photographs which she held out to him with a playful curtsey. The first one, which was in profile, was taken by one of the best photographers in the town. The other was an excellent snapshot, but what had come out best in it was the very smart dress, trimmed with lace, which she had been wearing the first time he had met her; her face was rather screwed up by the effort she was making to keep her eyes open in the strong sunlight. “Who took this one?” asked Emilio. “Leardi perhaps?” He remembered having seen Leardi walking along the street one day with a camera under his arm.

“No, no!” she said. “You jealous old thing! It was taken by a perfectly serious married man: Datti, the painter.”

Married perhaps, but hardly serious! “I am not jealous,” said Emilio, in a low, deep voice, “but sad, very sad indeed.” Then he caught sight of a photo of Datti himself, among the other photos—a man with a great red beard, whose portrait all the artists in the town loved painting—and on seeing him Emilio recalled with acute pain something he had once heard him say: “The sort of women I have to do with don’t deserve that my wife should be jealous of them.”

He had no need to hunt for proofs; they were showered upon him, they weighed him down, and Angiolina seemed to be clumsily doing her best to draw attention to them and force him to take them up. Feeling hurt and humiliated, she tried to justify herself by saying in a low voice: “I got to know all these people through Merighi.” She was obviously lying, for it was impossible to believe that a hard-working businessman like Merighi should have numbered among his acquaintance all these fast young men and artists, or that even if he had known them he should have introduced them to his future wife.

He gave her a long, searching look, as if he were seeing her for the first time, and she understood quite well the significance of that look; she became rather pale, and waited, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground. But Brentani suddenly remembered how little right he had to be jealous. No! he said to himself, he was not going to humiliate her or make her suffer; he never would do that. Very gently this time, in order to show her that he still loved her—he remembered that he had approached her quite differently only a few minutes earlier—he tried again to kiss her.

Her manner showed at once that he was forgiven, but she drew away from him and begged him not to try and kiss her any more. He was surprised at her refusing a kiss that to him meant so much, and he ended by getting even angrier than he had been before. “I have so many sins on my conscience already,” she said very seriously, “that I shall find it very hard to receive absolution today.