feeling the incidents of those hours had elicited from
his heart. He remembered how vexed he had been when Hermione told him
of the engagement for the evening. He remembered the moments after
the dinner, his sensation of loneliness when he listened to the gay
conversation of Vere and the Marchesino, his almost irritable anxiety
when she had left the restaurant and gone out to the terrace in the
darkness. He had felt angry with Panacci then. Had he not always felt
angry with Panacci for intruding into the island life?

He followed the record of his intercourse with Vere until he reached the
Festa of that night, until he reached the moment in which he was pacing
the tiny balcony while the night wore on towards dawn.

That was the record of himself with Vere.

He began to think of Hermione. How had all this that he had just been
telling over in his mind affected her? What had she been thinking of
it--feeling about it? And Gaspare?

Even now Artois did not understand himself, did not know whither his
steps might have tended had not the brutality of the Marchesino roused
him abruptly to this self-examination, this self-consideration. He did
not fully understand himself, and he wondered very much how Hermione and
the Sicilian had understood him--judged him.

Artois had a firm belief in the right instincts of sensitive but
untutored natures, especially when linked with strong hearts capable of
deep love and long fidelity. He did not think that Gaspare would easily
misread the character or the desires of one whom he knew well. Hermione
might. She was tremendously emotional and impulsive, and might be
carried away into error. But there was a steadiness in Gaspare which was
impressive, which could not be ignored.

Artois wondered very much what Gaspare had thought.

There was a tap at the door, and Gaspare came in, holding his soft hat
in his hand, and looking tragic and very hot and tired.

"Oh, Gaspare!" said Artois, coming in from the balcony, "they have come
back."

"Lo so, Signore."

"And they are sleeping here for the night."

"Si, Signore."

Gaspare looked at him as if inquiring something of him.

"Sit down a minute," said Artois, "and have something to drink. You must
spend the night here, too. The porter will give you a bed."

"Grazie, Signore."

Gaspare sat down by the table, and Artois gave him some Nocera and
lemon-juice. He would not have brandy or whiskey, though he would not
have refused wine ha