Doro had made the acquaintance
of the dwellers on the island, he had never wished to smack his smooth,
complacent cheeks.

They turned from the sea into the broad walk of the Villa, and walked
towards the kiosk. Near it, on the small, green chairs, were some ladies
swathed in gigantic floating-veils, talking to two or three very smart
young men in white suits and straw hats, who leaned forward eying them
steadily with a determined yet rather vacuous boldness that did not
disconcert them. One of the ladies, dressed in black-and-white check,
was immensely stout. She seemed to lead the conversation, which was
carried on with extreme vivacity in very loud and not melodious voices.

"Ecco the gathering of the geese!" said the Marchesino, touching Artois
on the arm. "And that"--he pointed to the stout lady, who at this moment
tossed her head till her veil swung loose like a sail suddenly
deserted by the wind--"is the goose-mother. Buona sera, Marchesa! Buona
sera--molto piacere. Carlo, buona sera--a rivederci, Contessa! A questa
sera."

He showed his splendid teeth in a fixed but winning smile, and, hat in
hand, went by, walking from his hips. Then, replacing his hat on his
head, he added to his friend:

"The Marchesa is always hoping that the Duchessa d'Aosta will come
one day, if only for a moment, to smile upon the geese. But--well, the
Duchessa prefers to climb to the fourth story to see the poor. She has a
heart. Let us sit here, Emilio."

They sat down under the trees, and the Marchesino looked at his pointed
boots for a moment in silence, pushing forward his under lip until his
blond mustache touched the jaunty tip of his nose. Then he began to
laugh, still looking before him.

"Emilio! Emilio!"

He shook his head repeatedly.

"Emilio mio! And that you should be asking me to show you Naples! It is
too good! C'est parfait!"

The Marchesino turned towards Artois.

"And Maria Fortunata! Santa Maria of the Toledo, the white-haired
protectress of the strangers! Emilio--you might have come to me! But you
do not trust me. Ecco! You do not--"

Artois understood.

"You saw me last night?"

"Ma si! All Naples saw you. Do you not know that the Galleria is
full--but full--of eyes?"

"Va bene! But you don't understand."

"Emilio!"

He shrugged his shoulders, lifted his hands, his eyebrows. His whole
being seemed as if it were about to mount ironically towards heaven.

"You don't understand. I repeat it."