“Giulia, never mind! Don’t cry! Gaspare didn’t mean—”
Before she had finished speaking the servant passionately seized her hand and kissed it. Vere released her hand very gently and went slowly up the stairs.
The instinct of Artois was to follow her. He longed to follow her, but he denied himself, and sat down by the dinner-table, on which the zuppa di pesce was smoking under the lamp. Giulia, trying to stifle her sobs, went away down the kitchen stairs, and Gaspare stood near the door. He touched his face with his hands, opened and shut his lips, then thrust his hands into his pockets, and stared first at Artois then at the floor. His cheeks and his forehead looked hot, as if he had just finished some difficult physical act. Artois did not glance at him. In that moment both men, in their different ways, felt dreadfully, almost unbearably, self-conscious.
Presently Vere’s step was heard again on the stairs, descending softly and slowly. She came in and went at once to Artois.
“Madre doesn’t answer.”
Artois got up.
“What ought we to do?”
Vere was whispering.
“Did you hear anything?”
“No.”