“It is papa! It is papa!”
“Pardon! I did not recognize—”
The Marchesino got up.
“Let us go there. The Marchesa with papa—it is better than the Compagnia Scarpetta! I will present you.”
But Artois was in no mood for a cataract of nothingness.
“Not now,” he said. “I have—”
The Marchesino shot a cruel glance of impudent comprehension at him, and touched his left hand in token of farewell.
“I know! I know! The quickest horse to the Toledo. A-ah! A-ah! May the writer’s saint go with you! Addio, mio caro!”
There was a hint of real malice in his voice. He cocked his hat and strutted away towards the veils and the piercing voices. Artois stared after him for a moment, then walked across the garden to the sea, and leaned against the low wall looking towards Capri. He was vexed at this little episode—unreasonably vexed. In his friend Doro he now discerned a possible enemy. An Italian who has trusted does not easily forgive if he is not trusted in return. Artois was conscious of a dawning hostility in the Marchesino. No doubt he could check it. Doro was essentially good-tempered and light-hearted. He could check it by an exhibition of frankness. But this frankness was impossible to him, and as it was impossible he must allow Doro to suspect him of sordid infamies. He knew, of course, the Neapolitan’s habitual disbelief in masculine virtue, and did not mind it. Then why should he mind Doro’s laughing thought of himself as one of the elderly crew who cling to forbidden pleasures? Why should he feel sore, angry, almost insulted?
Vere rose before him, as one who came softly to bring him the answer to his questionings. And he knew that his vexation arose from the secret apprehension of a future in which he would desire to stand between her and the Marchesino with clean hands, and tell Doro certain truths which are universal, not national. Such truths would come ill from one whom the lectured held unclean.