face, and went out as if reassured.
Hermione and the Marchese sat in silence waiting for him to return. In a
moment the door was reopened.

"Signora, I have told the Signorina."

"What did she say?"

Gaspare looked at the Marchese as he answered.

"Signora, the Signorina said to me, 'Please tell Madre that I cannot
come to see the Signor Marchese.'"

"You can go, Gaspare."

He looked at the angry flush on the Marchesino's cheeks, and went out.

"Good-bye, Marchese."

Hermione got up. The Marchesino followed her example. But he did not go.
He stood still for a moment in silence. Then he lifted his head up with
a jerk.

"Signora," he said, in a hard, uneven voice that betrayed the intensity
of his excitement, "I see how it is. I understand perfectly what is
happening here. You think me bad. Well, I am like other men, and I
am not ashamed of it--not a bit. I am natural. I live according to
my nature, and I do not come from your north, but from Naples--from
Naples." He threw out his arm, pointing at a window that looked towards
the city. "If it is bad to have the blood hot in one's veins and the
fire hot in one's head and in one's heart--very well! I am bad. And I do
not care. I do not care a bit! But you think me a stupid boy. And I am
not that. And I will show you." He drew his fingers together, and bent
towards her, slightly lowering his voice. "From the first, from the very
first moment, I have seen, I have understood all that is happening here.
From the first I have understood all that was against me--"

"Marchese--!"

"Signora, pardon me! You have spoken, the Signorina has spoken, and now
it is for me to speak. It is my right. I come here with an honorable
proposal, and therefore I say I have a right--"

He put his fingers inside his shirt collar and pulled it fiercely out
from his throat.

"E il vecchio!" he exclaimed, with sudden passion. "E il maledetto
vecchio!"

Hermione's face changed. There had been in it a firm look, a calmness of
strength. But now, at his last words, the strength seemed to shrink. It
dwindled, it faded out of her, leaving her not collapsed, but cowering,
like a woman who crouches down in a corner to avoid a blow.

"It is he! It is he! He will not allow it, and he is master here."

"Marchese--"

"I say he is master--he is master--he has always been master here!"

He came a step towards Hermione, moving as a man sometimes moves
instinctively when he is determined to make