“No, I don’t think so,” returned the Marchesino, quite seriously.
He had a sense of humor, but it did not always serve him. Occasionally it was fitful, and when summoned by irony remained at a distance.
“It is true, Emilio, you have never seen me angry,” he continued, reverting to the remark of Artois; “you ought to. Till you have seen a Panacci angry you do not really know him. With you, of course, I could never be angry—never, never. You are my friend, my comrade. To you I tell everything.”
A sudden remembrance seemed to come to him. Evidently a new thought had started into his active mind, for his face suddenly changed, and became serious, even sentimental.
“What is it?” asked Artois.
“To-day, just now in the sea, I have seen a girl—Madonna! Emilio, she had a little nose that was perfect—perfect. How she was simpatica! What a beautiful girl!”
His whole face assumed a melting expression, and he pursed his lips in the form of a kiss.
“She was in the sea, too?” asked Artois.
“No. If she had been! But I was with papa. It was just after we had been serenading you. She had heard us, I am sure, for she was laughing. I dived under the boat in which she was. I did all my tricks for her. I did the mermaid and the seal. She was delighted. She never took her eyes from me. As to papa—she never glanced at him. Poor papa! He was angry. She had her mother with her, I think—a Signora, tall, flat, ugly, but she was simpatica, too. She had nice eyes, and when I did the seal she could not help laughing, though I think she was rather sad.”
“What sort of boat were they in?” Artois asked, with sudden interest.