“Ecco. That is our Signore's dog,” announced the man who had promised intercession. “He himself will not be far behind.”
At the word, appeared, approaching, the tall and slender figure of Bertram, to whom, in a sudden contrapuntal outburst, both gondoliers began to speak Venetian. They spoke rapidly, turbulently almost, with many modulations, with lavish gestures, vividly, feelingly, each exposed the ladies' case.
Bertram, his grey eyes smiling (you know that rather deep-in, flickering smile of goodwill of theirs), removed his panama hat and said, in perfectly English English, with the accent of a man praying a particular favour, “I beg you to let them take you to your hotel.”
The next instant, the gondoliers steadying their craft, Lucilla murmuring what she could by way of thanks, he had helped them aboard, and, after a quick order to the men, was bowing god-speed to them from the landing-stage, while one hand, by the collar, held captive a tugging, impetuous Balzatore.
“But you?” exclaimed Lucilla, puzzled. “Do you not also go to Venice?”
“Oh, they will come back for me,” said Bertram, lightly.
She gave a slight movement to her head, slight but decisive, a movement that implied finality.
“We can't think of such a thing,” in the tone of an ultimatum she declared. “It's extremely good of you to offer us a lift—but we simply can't accept it if it means inconvenience to yourself.”
And Bertram, of course, at once ceded the point.
Bowing again, “Thank you very much,” he said. “I wasn't sure we shouldn't be in your way.”