pers of Catania, of Messina, and
Palermo. But at this hour the caffe was closed and the club was empty.
For the sun beat down with fury upon the open space with its tiled
pavement, and the seats let into the wall that sheltered the Piazza from
the precipice that frowned above the sea were untenanted by loungers. As
Maurice went by he thought of Gaspare's words, "When a man cannot go any
more into the Piazza--Madonna, it is finished!" This was the place where
the public opinion of Marechiaro was formed, where fame was made and
characters were taken away. He paused for an instant by the church, then
went on under the clock tower and came to the post.

"Any letters for me, Don Paolo?" he asked of the postmaster.

The old man saluted him languidly through the peep-hole.

"Si, signore, ce ne sono."

He turned to seek for them while Maurice waited. He heard the flies
buzzing. Their noise was loud in his ears. His heart beat strongly and he
was gnawed by suspense. Never before had he felt so anxious, so impatient
to know anything as he was now to know if among the letters there was one
from Hermione.

"Ecco, signore!"

"Grazie!"

Maurice took the packet.

"A rivederci!"

"A rivederlo, signore."

He went away down the street. But now he had his letters he did not look
at them immediately. Something held him back from looking at them until
he had come again into the Piazza. It was still deserted. He went over to
the seat by the wall, and sat down sideways, so that he could look over
the wall to the sea immediately below him. Then, very slowly, he drew out
his cigarette-case, selected a cigarette, lit it, and began to smoke like
a man who was at ease and idle. He glanced over the wall. At the foot of
the precipice by the sea was the station of Cattaro, at which Hermione
and Artois would arrive when they came. He could see the platform, some
trucks of merchandise standing on the rails, the white road winding by
towards San Felice and Etna. After a long look down he turned at last to
the packet from the post which he had laid upon the hot stone at his
side. The _Times_, the "Pink 'un," the _Illustrated London News_, and
three letters. The first was obviously a bill forwarded from London. The
second was also from England. He recognized the handwriting of his
mother. The third? He turned it over. Yes, it was from Hermione. His
instinct had not deceived him. He was certain, too, that it did not
deceive him now. He was cer