“Madame!” he said reproachfully, “we should have waited. The sea is too rough. Really, it is dangerous. And the Signorina and I—we could have danced together.”
Hermione could not help laughing, though she did not feel gay.
“I should not have danced,” said Vere. “I could not. I should have had to watch the storm.”
She was peering out of the cabin window at the wild foam that leaped up round the little craft and disappeared in the darkness. There was no sensation of fear in her heart, only a passion of interest and an odd feeling of triumph.
To dance with the Marchesino at the Scoglio di Frisio would have been banal in comparison with this glorious progress through the night in the teeth of opposing elements. She envied Gaspare, who was outside with the sailors, and whose form she could dimly see, a blur against the blackness. She longed to take off her smart little hat and her French frock, and be outside too, in the wind and the rain.
“It is ridiculous to be dressed like this!” she said, quickly, taking off the glove she had put on her left hand. “You poor Marchese!”
She looked at his damp “smoking,” his soaking gloves and deplorable expression, and could not repress a little rush of laughter.
“Do forgive me! Madre, I know I’m behaving shamefully, but we are all so hopelessly inappropriate. Your diamond broach, Madre! And your hat is all on one side. Gaspare must have knocked it with the umbrella. I am sure we all look like hens in a shower!”
She leaned back against the swaying side of the cabin and laughed till the tears were in her eyes. The sudden coming of the storm had increased the excitement that had been already within her, created by the incidents of the day.
“Vere!” said her mother, but smiling through the protest.