I do. But--but I often feel that I am very blind, very stupid. You
called me an impulsive--I suppose I am one. But if I don't follow my
impulses, what am I to follow? One must have a guide."

"Yes, and reason is often such a dull one, like a verger throwing one
over a cathedral and destroying its mystery and its beauty with every
word he speaks. When one is young one does not feel that one needs a
guide at all."

"Sometimes--often--I feel very helpless now," she said.

He was acutely conscious of the passionate longing for sympathy that was
alive within her, and more faintly aware of a peculiar depression that
companioned her to-night. Yet, for some reason unknown to him, he could
not issue from a certain reserve that checked him, could not speak to
her as he had spoken not long ago in the cave. Indeed, as she came in
her last words a little towards him, as one with hands tremblingly and a
little doubtfully held out, he felt that he drew back.

"I think we all feel helpless often when we have passed our first
youth," he answered.

He got up and stretched himself, towering above her.

"Shall we stroll about a little?" he added. "I feel quite cramped with
sitting."

"You go. I'll finish this flower."

"I'll take a turn and come back."

As he went she dropped her embroidery and sat staring straight before
her at the sea.

Artois heard voices in the house, and listened for a new one, the voice
of Peppina. But he could not distinguish it. He went down into the tiny
garden. No one was there, and he returned, and passing through the house
came out on its farther side. Here he met Gaspare coming up from the
sea.

"Good-evening, Gaspare," he said.

"Good-evening, Signore."

"I hear there's a new-comer in the house."

"Signore?"

"A new servant."

Gaspare lifted his large eyes towards heaven.

"Testa della Madonna?" said Artois.

"Signore?"

"Have a cigar, Gaspare?"

"Grazie, Signore."

"Is she a good sort of girl, do you think?"

"Who, Signore?"

"This Peppina."

"She is in the kitchen, Signore. I have nothing to do with her."

"I see."

Evidently Gaspare did not mean to talk. Artois decided to change the
subject.

"I hear you had that boy, Ruffo, sleeping in the house the other night,"
he said.

"Si, Signore; the Signorina wished it."

Gaspare's voice sounded rather more promising.

"He seems popular on the island."

"He had been ill, Signore, and it was raining hard. Poveretto! He h