the noises round about her.

It was the song of Mergellina, sung at some distance off in dialect,
by a tenor voice to the accompaniment of a piano-organ. Hermione ceased
from gazing at the drops on the glass, looked up, listened.

The song came nearer. The tenor voice was hard, strident, sang lustily
but inexpressively in the glaring sunshine. And the dialect made the
song seem different, almost new. Its charm seemed to have evaporated.
Yet she remembered vaguely that it had charmed her. She sought for the
charm, striving feebly to recapture it.

The piano-organ hurt her, the hard voice hurt her. It sounded cruel and
greedy. But the song--once it had appealed to her. Once she had leaned
down to hear it, she had leaned down over the misty sea, her soul had
followed it out over the sea.

"Oh, dolce luna bianca de l' estate
Mi fugge il sonno accanto a la Marina:
Mi destan le dolcissime serate
Gli occhi di Rosa e il mar di Mergellina."

Those were the real words. And what voice had sung them?

And then, suddenly, her brain worked once more with its natural
swiftness and vivacity, her imagination and her heart awaked. She was
again alive. She saw the people. She heard the sounds about her. She
felt the scorching heat of the sun. But in it she was conscious also of
the opposite of day, of the opposite of heat. At that moment she had a
double consciousness. For she felt the salt coolness of the night around
the lonely island. And she heard not only the street singer, but Ruffo
in his boat.

Ruffo--in his boat.

Suddenly she could not see anything. Her sight was drowned by tears. She
got up at once. She felt for her purse, found it, opened it, felt for
money, found some coins, laid them down on the table, and began to walk.
She was driven by fear, the fear of falling down in the sun in the sight
of all men, and crying, sobbing, with her face against the ground. She
heard a shout. Some one gave her a violent push, thrusting her forward.
She stumbled, recovered herself. A passer-by had saved her from a tram.
She did not know it. She did not look at him or thank him. He went away,
swearing at the English. Where was she going?

She must go home. She must go to the island. She must go to Vere, to
Gaspare, to Emile--to her life.

Her body and soul revolted from the thought, her outraged body and her
outraged soul, which were just beginning to feel their courage, as flesh
and nerves begin to feel pain after