“Gaspare! Is Madre all safe in the launch?”
Vere glided from under the Marchesino’s umbrella and sought the shade of Gaspare’s. Behind, the Marchesino was murmuring to himself Neapolitan street expressions.
“Si, Signorina.”
Gaspare’s face had suddenly lighted up. His Padroncina’s little hand was holding tightly to his strong arm.
“Take care, Signorina. That is water!”
“Oh, I was nearly in. I thought—”
He almost lifted her into the launch, which was rising and falling on the waves.
“Madre! What a night!”
Vere sank down on the narrow seat of the little cabin. The Marchesino jumped aboard. The machine in the stern throbbed. They rushed forward into the blackness of the impenetrable night, the white of the leaping foam, the hissing of the rain, the roaring of the wind. In a blurred and hasty vision the lights of Frisio’s ran before them, fell back into the storm like things defeated. Hermione fancied she discerned for a second the blind man’s scarlet face and open mouth, the Padrone at a window waving a frantic adieu, having only just become aware of their departure. But if it were so they were gone before she knew—gone into mystery, with Emile and the world.
The Marchesino inserted himself reproachfully into the cabin. He had turned up the collar of his “smoking,” and drawn the silk lapels forward over his soft shirt-front. His white gloves were saturated. He came to sit down by Vere.