“Signora, all sorts of people come here to the island—men from Naples. We do not know them. We cannot tell who they are. And they can all see the Signorina. And they can even talk to her.”
“The fishermen, you mean?”
“Any one who comes in a boat.”
“Well, but scarcely any one ever comes but the fishermen. You know that.”
“Oh, it was all very well when the Signorina was a little girl, a child, Signora,” he said, almost hotly. “But now it is different. It is quite different.”
Suddenly Hermione understood. She remembered what Vere had said about Gaspare being jealous. He must certainly be thinking of the boy-diver, of Ruffo.
“You think the Signorina oughtn’t to talk to the fishermen?” she said.
“What do we know of the fishermen of Naples, Signora? We are not Neapolitans. We are strangers here. We do not know their habits. We do not know what they think. They are different from us. If we were in Sicily! I am a Sicilian. I can tell. But when men come from Naples saying they are Sicilians, how can I tell whether they are ruffiani or not?”
Gaspare’s inner thought stood revealed.
“I see, Gaspare,” Hermione said, quietly. “You think I should not have let the Signorina talk to that boy the other day. But I saw him myself, and I gave the Signorina leave to take him some cigarettes. And he dived for her. She told me all about it. She always tells me everything.”