The conversation was rapidly becoming insupportable to Artois.
“This is not our affair,” he said.
“I do not say it is. But still, as I am a Neapolitan, I think it a pity that some one does not explain to the Signora how impossible—”
“Caro mio!” Artois exclaimed, unable to endure his companion’s obvious inclination to pose as a protector of Vere’s innocence. “English ladies do not care to be governed. They are not like your charming women. They are independent and do as they choose. You had much better not bother your head about what happens on the island. Very soon the Signora may be leaving it and going away from Naples.”
“Davvero?”
The Marchesino turned right round in the little carriage, forgetting his pose.
“Davvero? No. I don’t believe it. You play with me. You wish to frighten me.”
“To frighten you! I don’t understand what you mean. What can it matter to you? You scarcely know these ladies.”
The Marchesino pursed his lips together. But he only said, “Si, si.” He did not mean to quarrel with Emilio yet. To do so might complicate matters with the ladies.
As they entered the Via del Popolo, and drew near to the Piazza di Masaniello, his excitement increased, stirred by the sight of the crowds of people, who were all streaming in the same direction past the iron rails of the port, beyond which, above the long and ghostly sheds that skirt the sea, rose the tapering masts of vessels lying at anchor. Plans buzzed in his head. He called upon all his shrewdness, all his trickiness of the South. He had little doubt of his capacity to out-manoeuvre Emilio and the Signora. And if the Signorina were favorable to him, he believed that he might even get the better of Gaspare, in whom he divined a watchful hostility. But would the Signorina help him? He could not tell. How can one ever tell what a girl will do at a given moment?