That was the record of himself with Vere.
He began to think of Hermione. How had all this that he had just been telling over in his mind affected her? What had she been thinking of it—feeling about it? And Gaspare?
Even now Artois did not understand himself, did not know whither his steps might have tended had not the brutality of the Marchesino roused him abruptly to this self-examination, this self-consideration. He did not fully understand himself, and he wondered very much how Hermione and the Sicilian had understood him—judged him.
Artois had a firm belief in the right instincts of sensitive but untutored natures, especially when linked with strong hearts capable of deep love and long fidelity. He did not think that Gaspare would easily misread the character or the desires of one whom he knew well. Hermione might. She was tremendously emotional and impulsive, and might be carried away into error. But there was a steadiness in Gaspare which was impressive, which could not be ignored.
Artois wondered very much what Gaspare had thought.
There was a tap at the door, and Gaspare came in, holding his soft hat in his hand, and looking tragic and very hot and tired.
“Oh, Gaspare!” said Artois, coming in from the balcony, “they have come back.”
“Lo so, Signore.”
“And they are sleeping here for the night.”
“Si, Signore.”