“Signor Rivarez, do you really think this attractive?” said Gemma, turning to the Gadfly, who was standing beside her, his arm round one of the wooden posts of the tent. “It seems to me——”
She broke off and remained looking at him silently. Except when she had stood with Montanelli at the garden gate in Leghorn, she had never seen a human face express such fathomless, hopeless misery. She thought of Dante's hell as she watched him.
Presently the hunchback, receiving a kick from one of the clowns, turned a somersault and tumbled in a grotesque heap outside the ring. A dialogue between two clowns began, and the Gadfly seemed to wake out of a dream.
“Shall we go?” he asked; “or would you like to see more?”
“I would rather go.”
They left the tent, and walked across the dark green to the river. For a few moments neither spoke.
“What did you think of the show?” the Gadfly asked presently.
“I thought it rather a dreary business; and part of it seemed to me positively unpleasant.”
“Which part?”
“Well, all those grimaces and contortions. They are simply ugly; there is nothing clever about them.”