There was a noise of rather shuffling footsteps on the paved floor of the room. Three musicians had come in. They were shabbily dressed. One was very short, stout, and quite blind, with a gaping mouth that had an odd resemblance to an elephant’s mouth when it lifts its trunk and shows its rolling tongue. He smiled perpetually. The other two were thin and dreary, middle-aged, and hopeless-looking. They stood not far from the table and began to play on guitars, putting wrong harmonies to a well-known Neapolitan tune, whose name Artois could not recall.
“What a pity it is they never put the right bass!” said Hermione.
“Yes. One would suppose they would hit it sometimes by mistake. But they seldom do.”
Except for the thin and uncertain music the restaurant was almost silent. The people who had just come in were sitting down far away at the end of the long room. Hermione and Artois were the only other visitors, now that Vere and the Marchesino were outside on the terrace.
“Famous though it is, Frisio’s does not draw the crowd,” said Hermione.
To-night she found it oddly difficult to talk to her friend, although she had refused the Marchesino’s invitation on purpose to do so.
“Perhaps people were afraid of the storm.”
“Well, but it doesn’t come.”
“It is close,” he said. “Don’t you feel it? I do.”
His voice was heavy with melancholy, and made her feel sad, even apprehensive.