“Perhaps I will tell you when we are on the sea,” he answered.
He looked at her. She had on a black hat, over which a white veil was fastened. It was tied beneath her chin, and hung down in a cloud over her breast. It made him think of the strange misty clouds which brooded about the breasts of the mountains of Ischia.
“Shall we go?” she said.
“Yes. What is Vere doing?”
“She is in her room.”
“What is she doing there?”
“Reading, I suppose. She often shuts herself up. She loves reading almost more than I do.”
“Well?”
Hermione led the way down-stairs. When they were outside, on the crest of the islet, the peculiar sickliness of the weather struck them both more forcibly.
“This is the strangest scirocco effect I think I have ever seen,” said Artois. “It is as if nature were under the influence of a drug, and had fallen into a morbid dream, with eyes wide open, and pale, inert and folded hands. I should like to see Naples to-day, and notice if this weather has any effect upon that amazing population. I wonder if my young friend, Marchese Isidoro Panacci—By-the-way, I haven’t told you about him?”