He went down to receive the launch.
“Emile,” Hermione said, as he disappeared, “can you understand what a comfort to me Gaspare is? Ah, if people knew how women love those who are ready to protect them! It’s quite absurd, but just because Gaspare said that, I’d fifty times rather have him with us than go without him.”
“I understand. I love your watch-dog, too.”
She touched his arm.
“No one could ever understand the merits of a watch-dog better than you. That’s right, Maria; we shall be safer with these.”
The Marchesino stood at the foot of the cliff, bare-headed, to receive them. He was in evening dress, what he called “smoking,” with a flower in his button-hole, and a straw hat, and held a pair of white kid gloves in his hand. He looked in rapturous spirits, but ceremonial. When he caught sight of Artois on the steps behind Hermione and Vere, however, he could not repress an exclamation of “Emilio!”
He took Hermione’s and Vere’s hands, bowed over them and kissed them. Then he turned to his friend.
“Caro Emilio! You are back! You must come with us! You must dine at Frisio’s.”
“May I?” said Artois.
“You must. This is delightful. See, Madame,” he added to Hermione, suddenly breaking into awful French, “we have the English flag! Your Jack! Voila, the great, the only Jack! I salute him! Let me help you!”