Perhaps, too, she was standing on the brink of a precipice. That suspicion, that fear, not to be banished by action, added to the curiosity, as about an unknown land, that she aroused.
And the new and vital sense of Hermione’s strangeness which was alive in Artois was met by a feeling in her that was akin to it, only of the feminine sex.
Their eyes encountered like eyes that say, “What are you?”
After swift greeting they went down-stairs to dine in the public room. As there were but few people in the house, the large dining-room was not in use, and their table was laid in the small restaurant that looks out on the Marina, and was placed close to the window.
“At last we are repeating our partie carree of the Guiseppone,” said Artois, as they sat down.
He felt that as host he must release himself from subtleties and under-feelings, must stamp down his consciousness of secret inquiries and of desires or hatreds half-concealed. He spoke cheerfully, even conventionally.
“Yes, but without the storm,” said Hermione, in the same tone. “There is no feeling of electricity in the air to-night.”
Even while she spoke she felt as if she were telling a lie which was obvious to them all. And she could not help glancing hastily round. She met the large round eyes of the Marchesino, eyes without subtlety though often expressive.
“No, Signora,” he said, smiling at her, rather obviously to captivate her by the sudden vision of his superb teeth—“La Bruna is safe to-night.”
“La Bruna?”