ntment after the weeks of separation.

"Oh, I don't think you'd better, Hermione," he answered, hastily.
"I--you--there might be people. I--I must rig you up something first, a
tent of some kind. Gaspare and I will do it. I can't have my wife--"

"All right," she said.

She tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

"How lucky you men are! You can do anything. And there's no fuss. Ah,
there's poor Emile, patiently waiting!"

Artois was already established once more in the chaise longue. He greeted
them with a smile that was gentle, almost tender. Those evil feelings to
which he had been a prey in London had died away. He loved now to see
the happiness in Hermione's face. His illness had swept out his
selfishness, and in it he had proved her affection. He did not think that
he could ever be jealous of her again.

"Sleeping all this time?" he said.

"I was. I'm ashamed of myself. My hair is full of mountain-side, but you
must forgive me, Emile. Ah, there's Lucrezia! Is tea ready, Lucrezia?"

"Si, signora."

"Then ask Gaspare to bring it."

"Gaspare--he isn't here, signora. But I'll bring it."

She went away.

"Where's Gaspare, I wonder?" said Hermione. "Have you seen him, Emile?"

"No."

"Perhaps he's sleeping, too. He sleeps generally among the hens."

She looked round the corner into the out-house.

"No, he isn't there. Have you sent him anywhere, Maurice?"

"I? No. Where should I--"

"I only thought you looked as if you knew where he was."

"No. But he may have gone out after birds and forgotten the time. Here's
tea!"

These few words had renewed in Maurice the fever of impatience to get
away and meet his enemy. This waiting, this acting of a part, this
suspense, were almost unbearable. All the time that Hermione slept he had
been thinking, turning over again and again in his mind the coming scene,
trying to imagine how it would be, how violent or how deadly, trying to
decide exactly what line of conduct he should pursue. What would
Salvatore demand? What would he say or do? And where would they meet? If
Salvatore waited for his coming they would meet at the House of the
Sirens. And Maddalena? She would be there. His heart sickened. He was
ready to face a man--but not Maddalena. He thought of Gaspare's story of
the fallen olive-branch upon which Salvatore had spat. It was strange to
be here in this calm place with these two happy people, wife and friend,
and to wonder what was waiting