sm. To the Panacci Villa
at Capodimonte came only Italians, except Emilio. The Marchesino had
inquired of Emilio if his mother should call upon the Signora Delarey,
but Artois, knowing Hermione's hatred of social formalities, had
hastened to say that it was not necessary, that it would even be a
surprising departure from the English fashion of life, which ordained
some knowledge of each other by the ladies of two families, or at
least some formal introduction by a mutual woman friend, before an
acquaintance could be properly cemented. Hitherto the Marchesino had
felt quite at ease with his new friends. But hitherto he had been, as it
were, merely at play with them. The interlude of fever had changed his
views and enlarged his consciousness. And Emilio was no longer at hand
to be explanatory if desired.

The Marchesino wished very much that he thoroughly understood the inner
workings of the minds of English ladies.

How mad were the English? How mad exactly, for instance, was the
Signora Delarey? And how mad exactly was the Signorina? It would be very
valuable to know. He realized that his accurate knowledge of Neapolitan
women, hitherto considered by him as amply sufficient to conduct him
without a false step through all the intricacies of the world feminine,
might not serve him perfectly with the ladies of the island. His
fever had, it seemed, struck a little blow on his self-confidence, and
rendered him so feeble as to be almost thoughtful.

And then, what exactly did he want? To discomfit Emilio utterly? That,
of course, did not need saying, even to himself. And afterwards? There
were two perpendicular lines above his eyebrows as the boat drew near to
the island.

But when he came into the little drawing-room, where Hermione was
waiting to receive him, he looked young and debonair, though still pale
from his recent touch of illness.

Vere was secretly irritated by his coming. Her interview with Peppina
had opened her eyes to many things, among others to a good deal that was
latent in the Marchesino. She could never again meet him, or any man
of his type, with the complete and masterful simplicity of ignorant
childhood that can innocently coquet by instinct, that can manage by
heredity from Eve, but that does not understand thoroughly, either, what
it is doing or why it is doing it.

Vere was not in the mood for the Marchesino.

She had been working, and she had been dreaming, and she wanted to have
another t