garettes 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!"

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!" Then an idea seemed to occur to him, and he looked
at his friend reproachfully. "And you knew the girl with the perfect
little nose, Emilio--all the time you knew her!"

"And all the time you knew I knew her!" retorted Artois.

They looked at each other in the eyes and burst out laughing.

"Emilio, you are the devil! I will never forgive you. You do not trust
me."

"Caro amico, I do trust you--always to fall in love with every girl you
meet. But"--and his voice changed--"the Signorina is a child. Remember
that, Doro."

They were going down the steps to the sea. Almost as Artois spoke they
reached the bottom, and saw their boat floating in the moonlight nearly
in the centre of the Pool. The Marchesino stood still.

"My dear Emilio," he said, staring at Artois with his great round eyes,
"you make me wonder whether you know women."

Artois felt amused.

"Really?" he said.

"Really! And yet you write books."

"Writing books does not always prove that one knows much. But explain to
me."

They began to stroll on the narrow space at the sea edg