And then he thought of the night when all in vain he had sung upon the sea, while the Signorina and “un Signore” were hidden somewhere near him.
The blood sang in his head, and something seemed to expand in his brain, to press violently against his temples, as if striving to force its way out. He put down his coffee cup, and the two perpendicular lines appeared above his eyebrows, giving him an odd look, cruel and rather catlike.
“If Emilio—”
At that moment he longed to put a knife into his friend.
But he was not sure. He only suspected.
Hermione’s role in this summer existence puzzled him exceedingly. The natural supposition in a Neapolitan would, of course, have been that Artois was her lover. But when the Marchesino looked at Hermione’s eyes he could not tell.
What did it all mean? He felt furious at being puzzled, as if he were deliberately duped.
“Your cigarette has gone out, Marchese,” said Hermione. “Have another.”
The young man started.
“It’s nothing.”