The Padrone hastened away to fetch it, but Vere shook her head.
“No, no, we must not write! We are nobodies. Monsieur Emile is a great man. Only he is worthy of such a book. Isn’t it so, Madre?”
Artois felt the color rising to his face at this unexpected remark of the girl. He had been distrait during the dinner, certainly neither brilliant nor amusing, despite his efforts to seem talkative and cheerful. A depression had weighed upon him, as it had weighed upon him in the launch during the voyage from the island. He had felt as if he were apart, even almost as if he were de trop. Had Vere noticed it? Was that the reason of this sudden and charming demonstration in his favor?
He looked across at her, longing to know. But she was arguing gayly with the Marchesino, who continued to insist that they must all write their names as a souvenir of the occasion.
“We are nobodies,” she repeated.
“You dare to say that you are a nobody!” exclaimed the young man, looking at her with ardent eyes. “Ah, Signorina, you do wrong to drink no wine. In wine there is truth, they say. But you—you drink water, and then you say these dreadful things that are not—are not true. Emilio”—he suddenly appealed to Artois—“would not the Signorina honor any book by writing her name in it? I ask you if—”
“Marchese, don’t be ridiculous!” said Vere, with sudden petulance. “Don’t ask Monsieur Emile absurd questions!”
“But he thinks as I do. Emilio, is it not so? Is it not an honor for any book to have the Signorina’s name?”
He spoke emphatically and looked really in earnest. Artois felt as if he were listening to a silly boy who understood nothing.
“Let us all write our names,” he said. “Here comes the book.”