“Yes.”
“Let us go there. And before we go I will sing you a street song of Naples.”
“You—you are not a Neapolitan?” she asked.
“No. I come from South America. But I know Naples very, very well. Listen!”
And almost laughing, and looking suddenly buffo, he spoke a few sentences in the Neapolitan patois.
“Ah, they are rascals there! But one forgives them because they are happy in their naughtiness, or at any rate they seem happy. And there is nothing like happiness for getting forgiveness. We will be happy to-night, and we shall get forgiven. We will go to the Bella Napoli.”
She did not say “yes” or “no.” She was thinking at that moment of Craven and Adela Sellingworth. It was just possible that they might be there. But if they were? What did it matter? Minnie Birchington had seen her with Arabian. Lady Archie Brooke had seen her. Craven had seen her. And why should she be ashamed. Ought and ought not! Had she ever been governed in her life and her doing by fear of opinion?
“Do you say yes?” he asked. “Or must you go back to dear Mademoiselle Cronin?”
She shook her head.
“Then what do you say?”