nking sentimentality into
the eyes of Vere. He had no inward shyness to contend against, and was
perfectly at his ease; and Artois perceived that his gayety and sheer
animal spirits were communicating themselves to his companions. Vere
said little, but she frequently laughed, and her face lit up with
eager animation. And she, too, was quite at her ease. The direct,
and desirous, glances of the Marchesino did not upset her innocent
self-possession at all, although they began to upset the self-possession
of Artois. As he sat, generally in silence, listening to the frivolous
and cheerful chatter that never stopped, while the launch cut its way
through the solemn, steel-like sea towards the lights of Posilipo.
He felt that he was apart because he was clever, as if his cleverness
caused loneliness.

They travelled fast. Soon the prow of the launch was directed to a
darkness that lay below, and to the right of a line of brilliant lights
that shone close to the sea; and a boy dressed in white, holding a
swinging lantern, and standing, like a statue, in a small niche of rock
almost flush with the water, hailed them, caught the gunwale of the
launch with one hand, and brought it close in to the wall that towered
above them.

"Do we get out here? But where do we go?" said Hermione.

"There is a staircase. Let me--"

The Marchesino was out in a moment and helped them all to land. He
called to the sailors that he would send down food and wine to them
and Gaspare. Then, piloted by the boy with the lantern, they walked up
carefully through dark passages and over crumbling stairs, turned to
the left, and came out upon a small terrace above the sea and facing the
curving lamps of Naples. Just beyond was a long restaurant, lined with
great windows on one side and with mirrors on the other, and blazing
with light.

"Ecco!" cried the Marchesino. "Ecco lo Scoglio di Frisio! And here is
the Padrone!" he added, as a small, bright-eyed man, with a military
figure and fierce mustaches, came briskly forward to receive them.

CHAPTER XIII

The dinner, which was served at a table strewn with red carnations close
to an open window, was a gay one, despite Artois. It could hardly
have been otherwise with a host so complacent, so attentive, so
self-possessed, so hilarious as the Marchesino. And the Padrone of the
restaurant warmly seconded the efforts of the giver of the feast. He
hovered perpetually, but always discreetly, near, watchfu