He looked earnestly at Vere. This was the first time they had met since the revelation of Peppina. What the Marchesino had seen Artois saw more plainly, felt more strongly than the young Neapolitan had felt. But he looked at Vere, too, in search of something else, thinking of Ruffo, trying to probe into the depth of human mysteries, to find the secret spring that carried child to child.
“What do you want, Monsieur Emile?”
“I want to know how the work goes,” he answered, smiling.
She flushed a little.
“And I want to tell you something,” he added. “My talk with you roused me up. Vere, you set me working as I have not worked for a long while.”
A lively pleasure showed in her face.
“Is that really true? But then I must be careful, or you will never come to see us any more. You will always be shut up in the hotel writing.”
They mounted the cliff together and, without question or reply, as by a mutual instinct, turned towards the seat that faced Ischia, clear to-day, yet romantic with the mystery of heat. When they had sat down Vere added:
“And besides, of course, I know that it is Madre who encourages you when you are depressed about your work. I have heard you say so often.”
“Your mother has done a great deal for me,” said Artois, seriously—“far more than she will ever know.”