uld never think it was
best to leave the island."

"But what I want to know, Gaspare, is whether you think it would be
best for them to leave the island. That's what I want to know--and you
haven't told me."

"I am a servant, Signore. I cannot tell such things."

"You are a servant--yes. But you are also a friend. And I think nobody
could tell better than you."

"I am sure the Signora will not leave the island till October, Signore.
She says we are all to stay until the end of October."

"And now it's July."

"Si, Signore. Now it's July."

In saying the last words Gaspare's voice sounded fatalistic, and Artois
believed that he caught an echo of a deep-down thought of his own. With
all his virtues Gaspare had an admixture of the spirit of the East that
dwells also in Sicily, a spirit that sometimes, brooding over a nature
however fine, prevents action, a spirit that says to a man, "This is
ordained. This is destiny. This is to be."

"Gaspare," Artois said, strong in this conviction, "I have heard you
say, 'e il destino.' But you know we can often get away from things if
we are quick-witted."

"Some things, Signore."

"Most things, perhaps. Don't you trust me?"

"Signore!"

"Don't you think, after all these years, you can trust me?"

"Signore, I respect you as I respect my father."

"Well, Gaspare, remember this. The Signora has had trouble enough in her
life. We must keep out any more."

"Signore, I shall always do what I can to spare my Padrona. Thank you
for the cigar, Signore. I ought to go now. I have to go to Mergellina
for the boat."

"To Mergellina?"

Again Artois looked at him searchingly.

"Si, Signore; I left the boat at Mergellina. It is very hot to row all
the way here."

"Yes. A rivederci, Gaspare. Perhaps I shall sail round to the island
to-night after dinner. But I'm not sure. So you need not say I am
coming."

"A rivederci, Signore."

When Gaspare had gone, Artois said to himself, "He does not trust me."

Artois was surprised to realize how hurt he felt at Gaspare's attitude
towards him that day. Till now their mutual reserve had surely linked
them together. Then silence had been a bond. But there was a change, and
the bond seemed suddenly loosened.

"Damn the difference between the nations!" Artois thought. "How can we
grasp the different points of view? How can even the cleverest of us
read clearly in others of a different race from our own?"

He felt frustrated, as he