“Do you want brandy, whiskey?”
“No, no. Grazie.”
He poured out the Nocera gently, and began carefully to squeeze some lemon-juice into it, holding the fruit lightly in his strong fingers, and watching the drops fall with a quiet attention.
“Where have you been to-night?”
The Marchesino looked up.
“In the Piazza di Masaniello.”
“Where have you been?”
“I tell you—the Piazza, the Mercato, down one or two streets to see the illuminations. What’s the matter, caro mio? Are you angry because we lost you in the crowd?”
“You intended to lose us in the crowd before we left the hotel to-night.”
“Not at all, amico mio. Not at all.”