“Insolently young,” he said, keeping them authoritatively.
“But I am young. What do you mean, Monsieur Emile?”
“I? It is your meaning I am searching for.”
“I sha’n’t let you find it. You are much too curious about people. But—I’ve been having a game this morning.”
“A game! Who was your playmate?”
“Never mind.”
But her bright eyes went for the fraction of a second to Ruffo, who close by in the boat was lying at his ease, his head thrown back, and one of the cigarettes between his lips.
“What! That boy there?”
“Nonsense! Come along! Madre has been sitting at the window for ages looking out for the boat. Couldn’t you sail at all Gaspare?”
Artois had let go her hands, and now she turned to the Sicilian.