The last cannon was fired over the hero’s grave, the music stopped. The ladies applauded. Gerald, smiling sickly, clapped his hands, too, without, it might have been observed, making any noise to speak of. Estelle went to the piano to compliment the player more articulately, and loitered there, practising her French while he perfected himself in English, by mutual aid.
“Italo,” Mrs. Hawthorne interrupted them, “play that lovely thing of your own now–you know, the one we’re so crazy about, that by and by turns into a waltz.”
Without laying upon the ladies the tiresome necessity of pressing him, the composer plunged into this masterpiece, and Gerald sat back again, wondering what the little man thought of hearing himself called Italo by the fair forestiera. 97He was dimly troubled, knowing that there is no hope of an Italian ever really understanding the ways of being and doing of American women, and especially an Italian of that class. But then it would be equally difficult to make this American woman understand just how the Italian might misunderstand her.
He permitted himself a direct look at her, where she rested among the cushions, with eyes closed again and a smile diffused all over her face; her whole person, indeed, permeated with the essence of a smile. Extraordinary that, loving music so much, one could so much love such music.
She surprised him by opening her eyes and whispering:
“Don’t you want to smoke?” showing that for a moment at least she had not been thinking of music. “You can, if you want to. Here, we’ve got some. Don’t go and think, now, that Estelle and I have taken to smoking. Heavens above! We sent out for them the other night when Charlie Hunt was here.”
She reached across the table near her and handed him a box of cigarettes.
He was very glad to light one. To smoke is soothing, and he felt the need of it. Added to his vague distress at the spectacle of such familiarity from these ladies to that impossible little Italian, a ferment of resentment was disquieting him apropos of Hunt–those works of art of which Hunt had facilitated the purchase.
Hunt, of a truth, ever since the first mention of him that evening had been like a fish bone in Gerald’s throat.
He checked his thoughts, recognizing that it is not sane or safe to permit oneself to interpret the conduct of a person whom one does not like. The chances of being misled are too great. He uprooted a suspicion dishonoring to both.