Gaspare put the letter into the inner pocket of his jacket, and stood looking at Artois, holding the cigar in his left hand. In all these years Artois had never found out whether Gaspare liked him or not. He wished now that he knew.
“Gaspare,” he said, “I think you know that I have a great regard for your Padrona.”
“Si, Signore. I know it.”
The words sounded rather cold.
“She has had a great deal of sorrow to bear.”
“Si, Signore.”
“One does not wish that she should be disturbed in any way—that any fresh trouble should come into her life.”
Gaspare’s eyes were always fixed steadily upon Artois, who, as he spoke the last words, fancied he saw come into them an expression that was almost severely ironical. It vanished at once as Gaspare said:
“No, Signore.”
Artois felt the iron of this faithful servant’s impenetrable reserve, but he continued very quietly and composedly: