“Oh, you need not be angry, Emilio caro.”
“I am not angry,” said Artois.
Nor was he. It is useless to be angry with racial characteristics, racial points of view. He knew that well. The Marchesino stared at him.
“No, I see you are not.”
“The Signorina was with that boy. She has talked to him before. He has dived for her. He has sung for her! She has given him cigarettes, taken from her mother’s box, with her mother’s consent. Everything the Signorina does her mother knows and approves of. You saw the Signora send the Signorina for more cigarettes to give the boy to-night. Ebbene?”
“Ebbene. They are English!”
And he laughed.
“Madre mia!”
He laughed again, seized his mustaches, twisted them, and went on.
“They are English, but for all that the Signorina is a woman. And as to that boy—”