Gaspare was silent for a minute. Then he said:
“If I had met that Signore—” He lifted his right hand, which was lying on the table, and moved it towards his belt.
He sighed, and again looked hard at Artois.
“It is better that I did not meet him,” he said, with naïve conviction. “It is much better. The Signorina is not for him.”
Artois was sitting opposite to him, with the table between them.
“The Signorina is not for him,” repeated Gaspare, with a dogged emphasis.
His large eyes were full of a sort of cloudy rebuke and watchfulness. And as he met them Artois felt that he knew what Gaspare had thought. He longed to say, “You are wrong. It is not so. It was never so.” But he only said:
“The Signore Marchese will know that to-morrow.”
And as he spoke the words he was conscious of an immense sensation of relief which startled him. He was too glad when he thought of the final dismissal of the Marchesino.
Gaspare nodded his head and put his glass to his lips. When he set it down again it was empty. He moved to get up, but Artois detained him.