She was fascinated by his hand. Much as it had written, it had never written more clearly on paper than it was writing now.
But suddenly she felt as if she could not look at it any more, as if it was intolerable to look at it. And she turned towards the open window.
“What is it?” Artois asked her. “Is there too much air for you?”
“Oh no. It isn’t that. I was only thinking what a quantity of people pass by, and wondering where they were all going, and what they were all thinking and hoping. I don’t know why they should have come into my head just then. I suppose it will soon be time for us to start for the festa.”
“Yes. We’ll have coffee in my sitting-room—when they are ready.” He looked again at Vere and the Marchesino.
“Have we all finished? I thought we would go and have coffee up-stairs. What do you say, Vere?”
He spoke cheerfully.
“Yes; do let us.”
They all got up. As Hermione and Vere moved towards the door Artois leaned out of the window for a moment.
“You needn’t be afraid. There will be no storm to-night, Emilio!” said the Marchesino, gayly—almost satirically.