more intense, more
sympathetic, as if they felt with him, as if they knew the rapture of
youth, as if they were created to call it forth, to condone its
carelessness, to urge it to some almost fierce fulfilment.

"Salvatore is there, signorino."

"How do you know?"

"I saw the smoke from his pipe. Look, there it is again!"

A tiny trail of smoke curled up; and faded in the blue.

"I will go first because of Maddalena. Girls are silly. If I do this at
her she will understand. If not she may show her father you have been
here before."

He closed one eye in a large and expressive wink.

"Birbante!"

"It is good to be birbante sometimes."

He went out from the trees and Maurice heard his voice, then a man's,
then Maddalena's. He waited where he was till he heard Gaspare say:

"The padrone is just behind. Signorino, where are you?"

"Here!" he answered, coming into the open with a careless air.

Before the cottage door in the sunshine a great fishing-net was drying,
fastened to two wooden stakes. Near it stood Salvatore, dressed in a
dark-blue jersey, with a soft black hat tilted over his left ear, above
which was stuck a yellow flower. Maddalena was in the doorway looking
very demure. It was evident that the wink of Gaspare had been seen and
comprehended. She stole a glance at Maurice but did not move. Her father
took off his hat with an almost wildly polite gesture, and said, in a
loud voice:

"Buona sera, signore."

"Buona sera," replied Maurice, holding out his hand.

Salvatore took it in a large grasp.

"You are the signore who lives up on Monte Amato with the English lady?"

"Yes."

"I know. She has gone to Africa."

He stared at Maurice while he spoke, with small, twinkling eyes, round
which was a minute and intricate web of wrinkles, and again Maurice felt
almost--or was it quite?--ashamed. What were these Sicilians thinking of
him?

"The signora will be back almost directly," he said. "Is this your
daughter?"

"Yes, Maddalena. Bring a chair for the signore, Maddalena."

Maddalena obeyed. There was a slight flush on her face and she did not
look at Maurice. Gaspare stood pulling gently at the stretched-out net,
and smiling. That he enjoyed the mild deceit of the situation was
evident. Maurice, too, felt amused and quite at his ease now. His
sensation of shame had fleeted away, leaving only a conviction that
Hermione's absence gave him a right to snatch all the pleasure he could
from the