haps Gaspare saw it, for he
got up with determination.

"I am going to bed now, Signore. I am tired. Buona notte, Signore."

He took up his hat and went out.

Artois had not asked his question. But he felt that it was answered.

Gaspare knew. And he knew.

And Hermione--did Fate intend that she should know?

CHAPTER XXXI

It was nearly dawn when Artois fell asleep. He did not wake till past
ten o'clock. The servant who brought his breakfast handed him a note,
and told him that the ladies of the island had just left the hotel with
Gaspare. As Artois took the note he was conscious of a mingled feeling
of relief and disappointment. This swift, almost hurried departure left
him lonely, yet he could not have met Hermione and Vere happily in the
light of morning. To-day he felt a self-consciousness that was unusual
in him, and that the keen eyes of women could not surely fail to
observe. He wanted a little time. He wanted to think quietly, calmly, to
reach a decision that he had not reached at night.

Hermione and Vere had a very silent voyage. Gaspare's tragic humor cast
a cloud about his mistresses. He had met them in the morning with a
look of heavy, almost sullen scrutiny in his great eyes, which seemed to
develop into a definite demand for information. But he asked nothing.
He made no allusion to the night before. To Vere his manner was almost
cold. When they were getting into the boat at Santa Lucia she said, with
none of her usual simplicity and self-possession, but like one making an
effort which was repugnant:

"I'm very sorry about last night, Gaspare."

"It doesn't matter, Signorina."

"Did you get back very late?"

"I don't know, Signora. I did not look at the hour."

She looked away from him and out to sea.

"I am very sorry," she repeated.

And he again said:

"It doesn't matter, Signorina."

It was nearly noon when they drew near to the island. The weather was
heavily hot, languidly hot even upon the water. There was a haze hanging
over the world in which distant objects appeared like unsubstantial
clouds, or dream things impregnated with a mystery that was mournful.
The voice of a fisherman singing not far off came to them like the voice
of Fate, issuing from the ocean to tell them of the sadness that was the
doom of men. Behind them Naples sank away into the vaporous distance.
Vesuvius was almost blotted out, Capri an ethereal silhouette. And their
little island, even when they appro