“Really! And yet you write books.”
“Writing books does not always prove that one knows much. But explain to me.”
They began to stroll on the narrow space at the sea edge. Close by lay the boat to which Ruffo belonged. The boy was already in it, and they saw him strike a match and light one of the cigarettes. Then he lay back at his ease, smoking, and staring up at the moon.
“A girl of sixteen is not a child, and I am sure the Signorina is sixteen. But that is not all. Emilio, you do not know the Signorina.”
Artois repressed a smile. The Marchesino was perfectly in earnest.
“And you—do you know the Signorina?” Artois asked.
“Certainly I know her,” returned the Marchesino with gravity.
They reached Ruffo’s boat. As they did so, the Marchesino glanced at it with a certain knowing impudence that was peculiarly Neapolitan.
“When I came to the top of the islet the Signorina was with that boy,” the Marchesino continued.
“Well?” said Artois.