He spoke always lightly, laughingly; but Artois understood the malice at his heart, and hesitated for a moment whether to challenge it quietly and firmly, or whether laughingly, to accept the sly imputations of secrecy, of hypocrisy, in a “not-worth-while” temper. If things developed—and Artois felt that they must with such a protagonist as the Marchesino—a situation might arise in which Doro’s enmity must come out into the open and be dealt with drastically. Till then was it not best to ignore it, to fall in with his apparent frivolity? Before Artois could decide—for his natural temper and an under-sense of prudence and contempt pulled different ways—the Marchesino suddenly released his arm, leaned over the balcony rail, and looked eagerly down the road. A carriage had just rattled up from the harbor of Santa Lucia only a few yards away.
“Ecco!” he exclaimed. “Ecco! But—but who is with them?”
“Only Gaspare,” replied Artois.
“Gaspare! That servant who came to the Guiseppone? Oh, no doubt he has rowed the ladies over and will return to the boat?”
“No, I think not. I think the Signora will bring him to the Carmine.”
“Why?” said the Marchesino, sharply.
“Why not? He is a strong fellow, and might be useful in a crowd.”
“Are we not strong? Are we not useful?”
“My dear Doro, what’s the matter?”
“Niente—niente!”