e was longing to be gay,
as the men with those women were being gay.

"What do you think, Emilio caro?" he asked.

Then before Artois could reply, he said:

"After all, what do a few soldi matter? Who could sleep in a room on
such a night? It might be August, when one bathes at midnight, and sings
canzoni till dawn. Let us do as he says. Let us rest in the--what is the
pool?" he asked of the fishermen, pretending not to know the name.

"The pool of San Francesco, Signorino Marchesino."

"Pool of San Francesco. I remember now. That is the place where all the
fishermen along the coast towards Nisida go to sleep. I have slept there
many times when I was a boy, and so has Viviano. To-night shall we do as
the fishermen, Emilio?"

There was no pressure in his careless voice. His eyes for the moment
looked so simple, though as eager as a child's.

"Anything you like, mon ami," said Artois.

He did not want to go to San Francesco's Pool with the Marchesino, but
he did not wish to seem reluctant to go. And he said to himself now that
his interior hesitation was absurd. Night had fallen. By the time they
reached the Pool the inmates of the Case del Mare would probably be
asleep. Even if they were not, what did it matter? The boat would lie
among the vessels of the fishermen. The Marchesino and he would share
the fishermen's repose. And even if Hermione and Vere should chance
to be out of doors they would not see him, or, if they did, would not
recognize him in the night.

His slight uneasiness, prompted by a vague idea that the Marchesino was
secretly mischievous, had possibly some plan in his mind connected with
the islet, was surely without foundation.

He told himself so as the fisherman laid hold of their oars and set the
boat's prow towards the point of land which conceals the small harbor of
the Villa Rosebery.

The shrill voices of the two singers died away from their ears, but
lingered in the memory of the Marchesino, as the silence of the sea took
the boat to itself, the sea silence and the magic of the moon.

He turned his face towards the silver, beyond which, hidden as yet, was
the islet where dwelt the child he meant to know.

CHAPTER VII

Although Hermione had told Artois that she could not find complete rest
and happiness in her child, that she could not live again in Vere fully
and intensely as she had lived once, as she still had it in her surely
to live, she and Vere were in a singularly clo