dreadful things that are not--are not true.
Emilio"--he suddenly appealed to Artois--"would not the Signorina honor
any book by writing her name in it? I ask you if--"

"Marchese, don't be ridiculous!" said Vere, with sudden petulance.
"Don't ask Monsieur Emile absurd questions!"

"But he thinks as I do. Emilio, is it not so? Is it not an honor for any
book to have the Signorina's name?"

He spoke emphatically and looked really in earnest. Artois felt as if he
were listening to a silly boy who understood nothing.

"Let us all write our names," he said. "Here comes the book."

The Padrone bore it proudly down between the mirrors and the windows.

But Vere suddenly got up.

"I won't write my name," she said, sticking out her chin with the little
determined air that was sometimes characteristic of her. "I am going to
see what Gaspare and the sailors are doing."

And she walked quickly away towards the terrace.

The Marchesino sprang up in despair.

"Shall we all go, Madame?" he said. "I have ordered coffee. It will be
brought in a moment to the terrace."

Hermione glanced at Artois.

"I will stay here for a little. I want to look at the book," she said.
"We will come in a moment. I don't take coffee."

"Then--we will be upon the terrace. A rivederci per un momento--pour un
moment, Madame."

He bowed over Hermione's hand, and hurried away after Vere.

The Padrone put his book very carefully down between Hermione and
Artois, and left them with a murmured apology that he had to look after
another party of guests which had just come into the restaurant.

"I thought you would be glad to get rid of those young things for a
minute," said Hermione, in explanation of what she had done.

Artois did not reply, but turned over the leaves of the book
mechanically.

"Oh, here is Tolstoy's signature," he said, stopping.

Hermione drew her chair nearer.

"What a clear handwriting!" she said.

"Yes, isn't it? 'Vedi Napoli e poi mori.'"

"Where are you going to write?"

He was looking towards the outer room of the restaurant which led onto
the terrace.

He turned the leaves.

"I?--oh--here is a space."

He took up a pen the Padrone had brought, dipped it into the ink.

"What's the good?" he said, making a movement as if to push the book
away.

"No; do write."

"Why should I?"

"I agree with Vere. Your name will add something worth having to the
book."

"Oh, well--"

A rather bitter expression had