And, at that very instant, aware of a stealthy step behind him, he turned and saw Bissy.
There was something in the boy’s face, a suppressed emotion, a sort of furtive excitement, which startled and arrested him at once. Bissy carried a basket and a spud, with the latter of which, having deposited the former at a tree foot, he began to prod in an aimless way about the roots, obviously to give colour to some supposed business. Conscious of an odd unsteadiness in his feet, as if they had lost the sensation of contact with the ground, Tiretta approached the worker, and stood looking down.
“What is that for, Bissy?” he said. “To let in light and air?”
The boy did not answer for a moment; then suddenly ceased digging, and stood up, leaning on his spud like a perspiring goblin. Once or twice he gulped; and at last brought up resolution.
“To let in light and air—the signor has said it,” he answered.
Tiretta studied him, a strange smile on his lips.
“There is some mystery here,” he said low. “What is it, Bissy?”
“It is of your own making, signore. It has never been of mine. If you wish me still to respect it, I shall do so in all dutifulness, understanding that there is no reason in the world why il Signor Talé should be interested in the arrival this moment of someone in the gardens.”
“Of someone! Of whom, Bissy?” His voice did not seem to himself to belong to him.
“Of the owner of a little shoe I once pulled out of the mud, signore.”