but like a master.

Vere's hands had dropped.

"I am going to send for Monsieur Emile," she said.

"Va bene, Signorina."

She went quickly to the writing-table, sat down, hesitated. Her eyes
were riveted upon the photograph-frame.

"How could she? How could she?" she said, in a choked voice.

Gaspare took the frame away reverently, and put it against his breast,
inside his shirt.

"I can't go to Don Emilio, Signorina. I cannot leave you."

"No, Gaspare. Don't leave me! Don't leave me!"

She was the terrified child again.

"Perhaps we can find a fisherman, Signorina."

"Yes, but don't--Wait for me, Gaspare!"

"I am not going, Signorina."

With feverish haste she took a pen and a sheet of paper and wrote:

"DEAR MONSIEUR EMILE,--Please come to the island _at once_.
Something terrible has happened. I don't know what it is. But
Madre is--No, I can't put it. Oh, _do come_--please--please come!

VERE

"Come the _quickest_ way."

When the paper was shut in an envelope and addressed she got up. Gaspare
held out his hand.

"I will go and look for a fisherman, Signorina."

"But I must come with you. I must keep with you."

She held on to his arm.

"I'm not a coward. But I can't--I can't--"

"Si, Signorina! Si, Signorina!"

He took her hand and held it. They went to the door. When he put out his
other hand to open it Vere shivered.

"If we can't do anything, let us go down quickly, Gaspare!"

"Si, Signorina. We will go quickly."

He opened the door and they went out.

In the Pool of the Saint there was no boat. They went to the crest of
the island and looked out over the sea. Not far off, between the island
and Nisida, there was a boat. Gaspare put his hands to his mouth and
hailed her with all his might. The two men in her heard, and came
towards the shore.

A few minutes later, with money in their pockets, and set but cheerful
faces, they were rowing with all their strength in the direction of
Naples.

That afternoon Artois, wishing to distract his thoughts and quite unable
to work, went up the hill to the Monastery of San Martino. He returned
to the hotel towards sunset feeling weary and depressed, companionless,
too, in this gay summer world. Although he had never been deeply
attached to the Marchesino he had liked him, been amused by him, grown
accustomed to him. He missed the "Toledo incarnate." And as he walked
along the Marina he felt for a moment almost inclined to go