“It does not matter, Signorina.” The Barone stared keenly at the erect and tense figure at the prima donna’s side.
“You will excuse me, Herr Rosen,” said Nora, as she laid her hand upon the Barone’s arm.
Herr Rosen bowed stiffly; and the two left him standing uncovered in the moonlight.
“What is he doing here? What has he been saying to you?” the Barone demanded. Nora withdrew her hand from his arm. “Pardon me,” said he contritely. “I have no right to ask you such questions.”
It was not long after midnight when the motor-boat returned to its abiding place. On the way over conversation lagged, and finally died altogether. Mrs. Harrigan fell asleep against Celeste’s shoulder, and the musician never deviated her gaze from the silver ripples which flowed out diagonally and magically from the prow of the boat. Nora watched the stars slowly ascend over the eastern range of mountains; and across the fire of his innumerable cigarettes the Barone watched her.
As the boat was made fast to the landing in front of the Grand Hotel, Celeste observed a man in evening dress, lounging against the rail of the quay. The search-light from the customs-boat, hunting for tobacco smugglers, flashed over his face. She could not repress the little gasp, and her hand tightened upon Nora’s arm.
“What is it?” asked Nora.
“Nothing. I thought I was slipping.”