“Si, Signora.”
“I must see her.”
Hermione said the last words in a low and withdrawn voice, like one speaking to herself. As she spoke she was gazing at the boy beside her, and in her eyes there was a mystery almost like that of the night.
“Ruffo,” she added, in a moment, “I want you to promise me something.”
“Si, Signora.”
“Don’t speak to any one about the little talk we have had to-night. Don’t say anything, even to Gaspare.”
“No, Signora.”
For a short time they remained together talking of other things. Hermione spoke only enough to encourage Ruffo. And always she was watching him. But to-night she did not see the look she longed for, the look that made Maurice stand before her. Only she discerned, or believed she discerned, a definite physical resemblance in the boy to the dead man, a certain resemblance of outline, a likeness surely in the poise of the head upon the strong, brave-looking neck, and in a trait that suggested ardor about the full yet delicate lips. Why had she never noticed these things before? Had she been quite blind? Or was she now imaginative? Was she deceiving herself?
“Good-night, Ruffo,” she said, at last.
He took off his cap and stood bareheaded.