r hour he worked. He took
coffee, and wrote through the night. He slept when the dawn came, got
up, and toiled again.

He shut out the real world and he forgot it--until the fit was past.
And then he pushed away his paper, he laid down his pen, he
stretched himself, and he knew that his great effort had tired him
tremendously--tremendously.

He looked at his right hand. It was cramped. As he held it up he saw
that it was shaking. He had drunk a great deal of black coffee during
those days, had drunk it recklessly as in the days of youth, when he
cared nothing about health because he felt made of iron.

"Pf-f-f!"

And so there was Naples outside, the waters of the Bay dancing in the
sunshine of the bright summer afternoon, people bathing and shouting to
one another from the diving platforms and the cabins; people galloping
by in the little carriages to eat oysters at Posilipo. Lazy, heedless,
pleasure-loving wretches! He thought of Doro as he looked at them.

He had given strict orders that he was not to be disturbed while he was
at work, unless Hermione came. And he had not once been disturbed. Now
he rang the bell. An Italian waiter, with crooked eyes and a fair beard,
stepped softly in.

"Has any one been to see me? Has any one asked for me lately?" he said.
"Just go down, will you, and inquire of the concierge."

The waiter departed, and returned to say that no one had been for the
Signore.

"Not the Marchese Isidoro Panacci?

"The concierge says that no one has been, Signore."

"Va bene."

The man went out.

So Doro had not come even once! Perhaps he was seriously offended. At
their last parting in the Villa he had shown a certain irony that had
in it a hint of bitterness. Artois did not know of the fisherman's
information, that Doro had guessed who was Vere's companion that night
upon the sea. He supposed that his friend was angry because he believed
himself distrusted. Well, that could soon be put right. He thought of
the Marchesino now with lightness, as the worker who has just made a
great and prolonged effort is inclined to think of the habitual idler.
Doro was like a feather on the warm wind of the South. He, Artois, was
not in the mood just then to bother about a feather. Still less was he
inclined for companionship. He wanted some hours of complete rest out in
the air, with gay and frivolous scenes before his eyes.

He wanted to look on, but not to join in, the merry life that was about
him