“I do not say that. And you, Vere?”
“I love being here. I dread the thought of the autumn.”
“In what month do you go away, Signora?” asked the Marchesino.
“By the end of October we shall have made our flitting, I suppose.”
“You will come in to Naples for the winter?”
Hermione hesitated. Then she said:
“I almost think I shall take my daughter to Rome. What do you say, Vere?”
The girls face had become grave, even almost troubled.
“I can’t look forward in this weather,” she said. “I think it’s almost wicked to. Oh, let us live in the moment, Madre, and pretend it will be always summer, and that we shall always be living in our Casa del Mare!”
There was a sound of eager youth in her voice as she spoke, and her eyes suddenly shone. The Marchesino looked at her with an admiration he did not try to conceal.