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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, Signora?”

      “I am going to give you a few more cigarettes.”

      Vere sent a silent but brilliant “Thank you” to her mother. They all walked towards the house.

      Vere and her mother were in front, Artois and Ruffo behind. Artois looked very closely and even curiously at the boy.

      “Have I ever seen you before?” he asked, as they came to the bridge.

      “Signore?”

      “Not the other morning. But have we ever met in Naples?”

      “I have seen you pass by sometimes at the Mergellina, Signore.”

      “That must be it then!” Artois thought, “I have seen you there without consciously noticing you.”

      “You live there?” he said.

      “Si, Signore; I live with my mamma and my Patrigno.”

      “Your Patrigno,” Artois said, merely to continue the conversation. “Then your father is dead?”

      “Si, Signore, my Babbo is dead.”

      They were on the plateau now, before the house.

      “If you will wait a moment, Ruffo, I will fetch the cigarettes,” said Hermione.

      “Let me go, Madre,” said Vere, eagerly.

      “Very well, dear.”

      The girl ran into the house. As she disappeared they heard a quick step, and the Marchesino came hurrying up from the sea. He took off his hat when he saw Hermione, and stopped.

      “I was looking for you, Emilio.”

      He kept his hat in his hand. Evidently he had recovered completely from his lesson. He looked gay and handsome. Artois realized how very completely the young rascal’s desires were being fulfilled. But of course the introduction must be made. He made it quietly.

      “Marchese Isidoro Panacci—Mrs. Delarey.”

      The Marchesino bent and kissed Hermione’s hand. As he did so Vere came out of the house, her hands full of Khali Targa cigarettes, her face eager at the thought of giving pleasure to Ruffo.

      “This is my daughter, Vere,” Hermione said. “Vere, this is the Marchese Isidoro Panacci, a friend of Monsieur Emile’s.”

      The Marchesino went to kiss Vere’s hand, but she said:

      “I’m very sorry—look!”

      She showed him that they were full of cigarettes, and so escaped from the little ceremony. For those watching it was impossible to know whether she wished to avoid the formal salutation of the young man’s lips or not.

      “Here, Ruffo!” she said. She went up to the boy. “Put your hands together.”

      Ruffo gladly obeyed. He curved his brown hands into a cup, and Vere filled this cup with the big cigarettes, while Hermione, Artois, and the Marchesino looked on; each one of them with a fixed attention which—surely—the action scarcely merited. But there was something about those two, Vere and the boy, which held the eyes and the mind.

      “Good-night, Ruffo. You must carry them to the boat. They’ll be crushed if you put them into your trousers-pocket.”

      “Si, Signorina!”

      He waited a moment. He wanted to salute them, but did not know how to. That was evident. His expressive eyes, his whole face told it to them.

      Artois suddenly set his lips together in his beard. For an instant it seemed to him that the years had rolled back, that he was in London, in Caminiti’s restaurant, that he saw Maurice Delarey, with the reverential expression on his face that had been so pleasing. Yes, the boy Ruffo looked like him in that moment, as he stood there, wishing to do his devoir, to be polite, but not knowing how to.

      “Never mind, Ruffo,” It was Vere’s voice. “We understand! Or—shall I?” A laughing look came into her face. She went up to the boy and, with a delicious, childish charm and delicacy, that quite removed the action from impertinence, she took his cap off. “There!” She put it gently back on his dark hair. “Now you’ve been polite to us. Buona notte!”

      “Buona notte, Signorina.”

      The boy ran off, half laughing, and carrying carefully the cigarettes in his hands still held together like a cup.

      Hermione and Artois were smiling. Artois felt something for Vere just then that he could hardly have explained, master though he was of explanation of the feelings of man. It seemed to him that all the purity, and the beauty, and the whimsical unselfconsciousness, and the touchingness of youth that is divine, appeared in that little, almost comic action of the girl. He loved her for the action, because she was able to perform it just like that. And something in him, suddenly adored youth in a way that seemed new to his heart.

      “Well,” said Hermione, when Ruffo had disappeared. “Will you come in? I’m afraid all the servants are in bed, but—”

      “No, indeed it is too late,” Artois said.

      Without being aware of it he spoke with an authority that was almost stern.

      “We must be off to our fishing,” he added. “Good-night. Good-night, Vere.”

      “Good-night, Signora.”

      The Marchesino bowed, with his hat in his hand. He kissed Hermione’s hand again, but he did not try to take Vere’s.

      “Good-night,” Hermione said.

      A glance at Artois had told her much that he was thinking.

      “Good-night, Monsieur Emile,” said Vere. “Good-night, Marchese. Buona pesca!”

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