his own eyes, to sweep away a creeping
feeling that had been beginning to trouble him. He was playing with a
child. That was all. There was no harm in it. And when he had kissed her
in the dawn he had been kissing a child, playfully, kindly, as a big
brother might. And if he kissed her now it would mean nothing to her. And
if it did mean something--just a little more--to him, that did not
matter.

"Bambina mia!" he said.

"I am not a bambina," she said, turning towards him again.

"Yes you are."

"Then you are a bambino."

"Why not? I feel like a boy to-night, like a naughty little boy."

"Naughty, signorino?"

"Yes, because I want to do something that I ought not to do."

"What is it?"

"This, Maddalena."

And he kissed her. It was the first time he had kissed her in darkness,
for on his second visit to the sirens' house he had only taken her hand
and held it, and that was nothing. The kiss in the dawn had been light,
gay, a sort of laughing good-bye to a kind hostess who was of a class
that, he supposed, thought little of kisses. But this kiss in the night,
on the sea, was different. Only when he had given it did he understand
how different it was, how much more it meant to him. For Maddalena
returned it gently with her warm young lips, and her response stirred
something at his heart that was surely the very essence of the life
within him.

He held her hands.

"Maddalena!" he said, and there was in his voice a startled sound.
"Maddalena!"

Again Hermione had risen up before him in the night, almost as one who
walked upon the sea. He was conscious of wrong-doing. The innocence of
his relation with Maddalena seemed suddenly to be tarnished, and the
happiness of the starry night to be clouded. He felt like one who, in
summer, becomes aware of a heaviness creeping into the atmosphere, the
message of a coming tempest that will presently transform the face of
nature. Surely there was a mist before the faces of the stars.

She said nothing, only looked at him as if she wanted to know many things
which only he could tell her, which he had begun to tell her. That was
her fascination for his leaping youth, his wild heart of youth--this
ignorance and this desire to know. He had sat in spirit at the feet of
Hermione and loved her with a sort of boyish humbleness. Now one sat at
his feet. And the attitude woke up in him a desire that was fierce in its
intensity--the desire to teach Maddalena the great realities