towards the two sailors, suspecting their sleep. Then he got up quietly, and stepped out of the boat onto the shore. His doing so gave a slight impetus to the boat, which floated out a little way into the Pool. But the men in it seemed to sleep on.
Artois stood still for a moment at the edge of the sea. His great limbs were cramped, and he stretched them. Then he went slowly towards the steps. He reached the plateau before the Casa del Mare. The Marchesino was not there. He looked up at the house. As he did so the front door opened and Hermione came out, wrapped in a white lace shawl.
“Emile?” she said, stopping with her hand on the door. “Why—how extraordinary!”
She came to him.
“Have you come to pay us a nocturnal visit, or—there’s nothing the matter?”
“No,” he said.
For perhaps the first time in his life he felt embarrassed with Hermione. He took her hand.
“I don’t believe you meant me to know you were here,” she said, guided by the extraordinary intuition of woman.
“To tell the truth,” he answered, “I did not expect to see you. I thought you were all in bed.”
“Oh no. I have been on the terrace and in the garden. Vere is out somewhere. I was just going to look for her.”
There was a distinct question in her prominent eyes as she fixed them on him.
“No, I haven’t seen Vere,” he said, answering it.
“Are you alone?” she asked, abruptly.
“No. You remember my mentioning my friend, the Marchesino Panacci? Well, he is with me. We were going to fish. The fishermen suggested our sleeping in the Saint’s Pool for an hour or two first. I found Doro gone and came to look for him.”
There was still a faint embarrassment in his manner.
“I believe you have seen him,” he added. “He was bathing the other day when you were passing in the boat—I think it was you. Did you see a young man who did some tricks in the water?”
“Oh yes, an impudent young creature. He pretended to be a porpoise and a seal. He made us laugh. Vere was delighted with him. Is that your friend? Where can he be?”
“Where is Vere?” said Artois.
Their eyes met, and suddenly his embarrassment passed away.
“You don’t mean that—?”
“My friend, you know what these Neapolitans are. Doro came back from his bathe raving about Vere. I did not tell him I knew her. I think—I am sure he has guessed it, and much more. Let us go and find him. It seems you are to know him. E il destino.”
“You don’t want me to know him?” she said, as they turned away from the house.
“I don’t know that there is any real reason why you should not. But my instinct was against the acquaintance. Where can Vere be? Does she often come out alone at night?”
“Very often. Ah! There she is, beyond the bridge, and—is that the Marchesino Panacci with her? Why—no, it’s—”
“It is Ruffo,” Artois said.
Vere and the boy were standing near the edge of the cliff and talking earnestly together, but as Hermione and Artois came towards them they turned round as if moved by a mutual impulse. Ruffo took off his cap and Vere cried out:
“Monsieur Emile!”
She came up to him quickly. He noticed that her face looked extraordinarily alive, that her dark eyes were fiery with expression.
“Good-evening, Vere,” he said.
He took her small hand.
“Buona sera, Ruffo,” he added.
He looked from one to the other, and saw the perfect simplicity of both.
“Tell me, Vere,” he said. “Have you seen any one on the islet to-night?”
“Yes, just now. Why? What made you think so?”
“Well?”
“A man—a gentleman came. I told him he was trespassing.”
Artois smiled. Ruffo stood by, his cap in his hand, looking attentively at Vere, who had spoken in French. She glanced at him, and suddenly broke into Italian.
“He was that absurd boy we saw in the sea, Madre, the other day, who pretended to be a seal, and made me laugh. He reminded me of it, and asked me if I didn’t recognize him.”
“What did you say?”
“I said ‘No’ and ‘Good-night.’ ”
“And did he go?” asked Artois.
“No, he would not go. I don’t know what he wanted. He looked quite odd, as if he were feeling angry inside, and didn’t wish to show it. And he began trying to talk. But as I didn’t really know him—after all, laughing at a man because he pretends to be a seal is scarcely knowing him, is it, Monsieur Emile?”
“No,” he said, smiling at her smile.
“I said ‘good-night’ again in such a way that he had to go.”
“And so he went!” said Artois.
“Yes. Do you know him, Monsieur Emile?”
“Yes. He came with me to-night.”
A little look of penitence came into the girl’s face.
“Oh, I am sorry.”
“Why should you be?”
“Well, he began saying something about knowing friends of mine, or—I didn’t really listen very much, because Ruffo was telling me all about the sea—and I thought it was all nonsense. He was absurdly complimentary first, you see! and so, when he began about friends, I only said ‘good-night’ again. And—and I’m really afraid I turned my back upon him. And now he’s a friend of yours. Monsieur Emile! I am sorry!”
Already the Marchesino had had that lesson of which Artois had thought in Naples. Artois laughed aloud.
“It doesn’t matter, Vere. My friend is not too sensitive.”
“Buona sera, Signorina! Buona sera, Signora! Buon riposo!”
It was Ruffo preparing to go, feeling that he scarcely belonged to this company, although he looked in no way shy, and had been smiling broadly at Vere’s narrative of the discomfiture of the Marchesino.
“Ruffo,” said Hermione, “you must wait a moment.”
“Si,
