As Hermione stepped into the launch she said:
“I see there is plenty of room. I wonder if you would mind my taking my servant, Gaspare, to look after the cloaks and umbrellas. It seems absurd, but he says a storm is coming, and—”
“A storm!” cried the Marchesino. “Of course your Gaspare must come. Which is he?”
“There.”
The Marchesino spoke to Gaspare in Italian, telling him to join the two sailors in the stern of the launch. A minute afterwards he went to him and gave him some cigarettes. Then he brought from the cabin two bouquets of flowers, and offered them to Hermione and Vere, who, with Artois, were settling themselves in the bows. The siren sounded. They were off, cutting swiftly through the oily sea.
“A storm, Signora. Cloaks and umbrellas!” said the Marchesino, shooting a glance of triumph at “Cara Emilio,” whose presence to witness his success completed his enjoyment of it. “But it is a perfect night. Look at the sea. Signorina, let me put the cushion a little higher behind you. It is not right. You are not perfectly comfortable. And everything must be perfect for you to-night—everything.” He arranged the cushion tenderly. “The weather, too! Why, where is the storm?”
“Over Ischia,” said Artois.
“It will stay there. Ischia! It is a volcano. Anything terrible may happen there.”
“And Vesuvius?” said Hermione, laughing.
The Marchesino threw up his chin.