“The night of the storm—you got wet, didn’t you?”
“But that was long ago, Signorina,” he answered, looking steadily at her, with an expression that was searching and almost hard.
Had he guessed her inadvertence? She feared so, and felt rather guilty, and glad when Giulia came in to announce that lunch was ready.
Hermione, when they sat down, feeling a certain constraint, but not knowing what it sprang from, came to the rescue with an effort. She was really disinclined for talk, and was perpetually remembering that the presence of the Marchesino had prevented Emile from coming to spend a long day. But she remembered also her guest’s hospitality at Frisio’s, and her social instinct defied her natural reluctance to be lively. She said to herself that she was rapidly developing into a fogey, and must rigorously combat the grievous tendency. By a sheer exertion of will-power she drove herself into a different, and conversational, mood. The Marchesino politely responded. He was perfectly self-possessed, but he was not light-hearted. The unusual effort of being thoughtful had, perhaps, distressed or even outraged his brain. And the worst of it was that he was still thinking—for him quite profoundly.
However, they talked about risotto, they talked about Vesuvius, they spoke of the delights of summer in the South and of the advantages of living on an island.
“Does it not bore you, Signora, having the sea all round?” asked the Marchesino. “Do you not feel in a prison and that you cannot escape?”
“We don’t want to escape, do we, Madre?” said Vere, quickly, before Hermione could answer.
“I am very fond of the island, certainly,” said Hermione. “Still, of course, we are rather isolated here.”
She was thinking of what she had said to Artois—that perhaps her instinct to shut out the world was morbid, was bad for Vere. The girl at once caught the sound of hesitation in her mother’s voice.
“Madre!” she exclaimed. “You don’t mean to say that you are tired of our island life?”