“No, Signora,” he answered, this time, quickly. “You are not looking ill to-day.”
And he moved off, as if anxious to avoid further questioning.
Another time she thought that there was something wrong with her dress, or her hair, and said so.
“Is there anything wrong with me?” she exclaimed. “What is it?” And she instinctively glanced down at her gown, and put up her hands to her head.
And this time he had turned it off with a laugh, and had said:
“Signora, you are like the Signorina! Once she told me I was—I was”—he shook his head—“I forget the word. But I am sure it was something that a man could never be. Per dio!”
And then he had gone off into a rambling conversation that had led Hermione’s attention far away from the starting-point of their talk.
Vere, too, noticed the variations of his demeanor.
“Gaspare was very ‘jumpy’ to-day in the boat,” she said, one evening, after returning from a sail; “I wonder what’s the matter with him. Do you think he can be in love, Madre?”
“I don’t know. But he is fidanzato, Vere, with a girl in Marechiaro, you remember?”