she said. ‘My love!’

‘Though a fearfully cold wind blows in Verona,’ he said, ‘from out of the Alps. We shall have the smell of the snow in our noses.’

She sat up and looked at him.

‘Are you glad to go?’ she asked, troubled.

His eyes were inscrutable and laughing. She hid her face against his neck, clinging close to him, pleading:

‘Don’t laugh at me — don’t laugh at me.’

‘Why how’s that?’ he laughed, putting his arms round her.

‘Because I don’t want to be laughed at,’ she whispered.