His head was buzzing again. The touch of fever had really weakened him. He knew it now. Never gifted with much self-control, he felt to-day that, with a very slight incentive, he might lose his head. The new atmosphere which Vere diffused around her excited him strangely. He was certain that she was able to understand something of what he was feeling, that on the night of the storm she would not have been able to understand. Again he thought of Emilio, and moved restlessly in his chair, looking sideways at Hermione, then dropping his eyes. Vere did not come back.
Hermione exerted herself to talk, but the task became really a difficult one, for the Marchesino looked perpetually towards the house, and so far forgot himself as to show scarcely even a wavering interest in anything his hostess said. As the minutes ran by a hot sensation of anger began to overcome him. A spot of red appeared on each cheek.
Suddenly he got up.
“Signora, you will want to make the siesta. I must not keep you longer.”
“No, really; I love sitting out in the garden, and you will find the glare of the sun intolerable if you go so early.”
“On the sea there is always a breeze. Indeed, I must not detain you. All our ladies sleep after the colazione until the bathing hour. Do not you?”
“Yes, we lie down. But to-day—”
“You must not break the habit. It is a necessity. My boat will be ready, and I must thank you for a delightful entertainment.”
His round eyes were fierce, but he commanded his voice.
“A rive—”