He was being a little whimsical, was showing to her and to Gaspare that he knew how to be a Sicilian. And now he looked from one to the other to see how they took his salutation; looked gently, confidentially, with a smile dawning in his eyes under the deference and the boyish affection and gratitude.
And again it seemed to Hermione for a moment that Maurice stood there before her in the night. Her impulse was to catch Gaspare’s arm, to say to him, “Look! Don’t you see your Padrone?”
She did not do this, but she did turn impulsively to Gaspare. And as she turned she saw tears start into his eyes. The blood rushed to his temples, his forehead. He put up his hand to his face.
“Signora,” he said, “are you not coming?”
He cleared his throat violently. “I have taken a cold,” he muttered.
He caught hold of his throat with his left hand, and again cleared his throat.
“Madre di Dio!”
He spoke very roughly.
But his roughness did not hurt Hermione; for suddenly she felt far less lonely and deserted. Gaspare had seen what she had seen—she knew it.
As they went back to the house it seemed to her that she and Gaspare talked together.