“The Madonna del Carmine.”
They talked of the coming festa.
Vere was rather quiet, much less vehement in appearance and lively in manner than she had been at the Marchesino’s dinner. Artois thought she looked definitely older than she had then, though even then she had played quite well the part of a little woman of the world. There was something subdued in her eyes to-night which touched him, because it made him imagine Vere sad. He wondered if she were still troubled about her mother, if she had fulfilled her intention and asked Gaspare what he thought. And he longed to ask her, to know what Gaspare had said. The remembrance of Gaspare made him say to Hermione:
“I gave orders that Gaspare was to have a meal here. Did they tell you?”
“Yes. He has gone to the servants’ room.”
The Marchesino’s face changed.
“Your Gaspare seems indispensable, Signora,” he said to Hermione in his lightest, most boyish manner—a manner that the determination in his eyes contradicted rather crudely. “Do you take him everywhere, like a little dog?”
“I often take him,—but not like a little dog, Marchese,” Hermione said, quietly.
“Signora, I did not mean—Here in Naples, we use that expression for anything, or any one, we like to have always with us.”
“I see. Well, call Gaspare a watch-dog if you like,” she answered, with a smile; “he watches over me carefully.”