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Updated: June 5, 2025
Peppina's confession had roused her maidenhood to a theoretical knowledge of certain things in life, of certain cruel phases of man's selfishness and lust which, till then, she had never envisaged. The Marchesino's madness had carried her one step further. She had not actually looked into the abyss. But she had felt herself near to something that she hated even more than she feared it.
But he also knew that recently an Englishwoman, an old friend of the novelist, had come upon the scene, that she was living somewhere not far off, and that Artois had been to visit her once or twice by sea. Artois had spoken of her very casually, and the Marchesino's interest in her had not been awakened.
And certainly Artois had no desire to bring about his the Marchesino's acquaintance with them. That this was so, neither surprised nor seriously vexed the Marchesino. He knew a good deal of his friend's character, knew that Artois, despite his geniality and friendliness, was often reserved even with him.
Did they tell you?" "Yes. He has gone to the servants' room." The Marchesino's face changed. "Your Gaspare seems indispensable, Signora," he said to Hermione in his lightest, most boyish manner a manner that the determination in his eyes contradicted rather crudely. "Do you take him everywhere, like a little dog?" "I often take him, but not like a little dog, Marchese," Hermione said, quietly.
"The Madonna del Carmine." They talked of the coming festa. Vere was rather quiet, much less vehement in appearance and lively in manner than she had been at the Marchesino's dinner. Artois thought she looked definitely older than she had then, though even then she had played quite well the part of a little woman of the world.
Soon after dinner on the evening of the Marchesino's expedition with Artois, Vere had got up from the sofa, on which she had been sitting with a book of Rossetti's poems in her hand, had gone over to one of the windows, and had stood for two or three minutes looking out over the sea.
"I am quite covered, really, thank you." She hurried on, smiling, but not taking his arm. She knew how to be obstinate. "Ma Signorina mais Mademoiselle " "Gaspare! Is Madre all safe in the launch?" Vere glided from under the Marchesino's umbrella and sought the shade of Gaspare's. Behind, the Marchesino was murmuring to himself Neapolitan street expressions. "Si, Signorina."
These English misses! "Ouf!" It was out of the Marchesino's mouth before he was aware of it, an exclamation of cynical disgust. "What's the matter, amico mio?" said Artois, in a low voice. "Niente!" said the Marchesino, recollecting himself. "Are not you going to sleep?" "Yes," said Artois, throwing away his cigar end. "I am. And you?" "I too!" The Marchesino was surprised by his friend's reply.
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!" She turned and followed her mother into the house. "Che simpatica!" It was the Marchesino's voice, breathing the words through a sigh: "Che simpatica Signorina!"
But Vere's enthusiasm abruptly vanished, as if she feared that he might destroy its completeness by trying to share it. "Oh yes," she said. "We all do here; Madre, Gaspare, Monsieur Emile everybody." It was the first time the name of Artois had been mentioned among them that day. The Marchesino's full red lips tightened over his large white teeth.
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