Artois spoke quietly, but there was a sound in his voice which caused
his frivolous companion to stare at him with an inquiry that was, for a
moment, almost sulky.

"You forget, Doro, how old I am."

"What has that to do with it?"

"You forget--"

Artois was about to allude to his real self, to point out the
improbability of a man so mental, so known, so travelled as he was,
falling like a school-boy publicly into a sordid adventure. But he
stopped, realizing the uselessness of such an explanation. And he could
not tell the Marchesino the truth of his shadowy colloquy in a by-street
with the old creature from behind the shutter.

"You have made a mistake about me," he said. "But it is of no
consequence. Look! There is another goose coming."

He pointed with his cane in the direction of the chatterers near the
kiosk.

"It is papa! It is papa!"

"Pardon! I did not recognize--"

The Marchesino got up.

"Let us go there. The Marchesa with papa--it is better than the
Compagnia Scarpetta! I will present you."

But Artois was in no mood for a cataract of nothingness.

"Not now," he said. "I have--"

The Marchesino shot a cruel glance of impudent comprehension at him, and
touched his left hand in token of farewell.

"I know! I know! The quickest horse to the Toledo. A-ah! A-ah! May the
writer's saint go with you! Addio, mio caro!"

There was a hint of real malice in his voice. He cocked his hat and
strutted away towards the veils and the piercing voices. Artois stared
after him for a moment, then walked across the garden to the sea, and
leaned against the low wall looking towards Capri. He was vexed at this
little episode--unreasonably vexed. In his friend Doro he now discerned
a possible enemy. An Italian who has trusted does not easily forgive if
he is not trusted in return. Artois was conscious of a dawning hostility
in the Marchesino. No doubt he could check it. Doro was essentially
good-tempered and light-hearted. He could check it by an exhibition
of frankness. But this frankness was impossible to him, and as it was
impossible he must allow Doro to suspect him of sordid infamies. He
knew, of course, the Neapolitan's habitual disbelief in masculine
virtue, and did not mind it. Then why should he mind Doro's laughing
thought of himself as one of the elderly crew who cling to forbidden
pleasures? Why should he feel sore, angry, almost insulted?

Vere rose before him, as one who came softly to bring him t