t Sebastiano and that girl--Teodora."

"It was for Lucrezia then, signorino?"

"Yes, for Lucrezia. She's miserable enough already. I don't want her to
be a spectacle when--when the signora returns."

"I wonder when she is coming? I wonder why she has not written all these
days?"

"Oh, she'll soon come. We shall--we shall very soon have her here with
us."

He tried to speak naturally, but found the effort difficult, knowing what
he knew, that in the evening of that day Hermione would arrive at the
house of the priest and find no preparations made for her return, no one
to welcome her but Lucrezia--if, indeed, Lucrezia obeyed his orders and
refrained from descending to the village on the chance of hearing some
fresh news of her fickle lover. And Artois! There were no rooms engaged
for him at the Hotel Regina Margherita. There were no flowers, no books.
Maurice tingled--his whole body tingled for a moment--and he felt like a
man guilty of some mean crime and arraigned before all the world. Then he
struck Tito with his switch, and began to gallop down the steep path at a
breakneck pace, sticking his feet far out upon either side. He would
forget. He would put away these thoughts that were tormenting him. He
would enjoy this day of pleasure for which he had sacrificed so much, for
which he had trampled down his self-respect in the dust.

When they reached the road by Isola Bella, Salvatore's boat was just
coming round the point, vigorously propelled by the fisherman's strong
arms over the radiant sea. It was a magnificent day, very hot but not
sultry, free from sirocco. The sky was deep blue, a passionate, exciting
blue that seemed vocal, as if it were saying thrilling things to the
world that lay beneath it. The waveless sea was purple, a sea, indeed, of
legend, a wine-dark, lustrous, silken sea. Into it, just here along this
magic coast, was surely gathered all the wonder of color of all the
southern seas. They must be blanched to make this marvel of glory, this
immense jewel of God. And the lemon groves were thick along the sea. And
the orange-trees stood in their decorative squadrons drinking in the
rays of the sun with an ecstatic submission. And Etna, snowless Etna,
rose to heaven out of this morning world, with its base in the purple
glory and its feather of smoke in the calling blue, child of the sea-god
and of the god that looks down from the height, majestically calm in the
riot of splendor that set the feet