Gaspare seized his hands and pulled, laughing. Maurice stood up and stretched.
"You are more lazy than I, signore," said Gaspare. "Shall I write for you, too?"
"No, no."
He spoke abstractedly.
"Don't you know what to say?"
Maurice looked at him swiftly. The boy had divined the truth. In his present mood it would be difficult for him to write to Hermione. Still, he must do it. He went up to the cottage and sat down at the writing-table with Hermione's letter beside him.
He read it again carefully, then began to write. Now he was faintly aware of the unreason of his previous mood and quite resolved not to express it, but while he was writing of his every-day life in Sicily a vision of the sick-room in Africa came before him again. He saw his wife shut in with Artois, tending him. It was night, warm and dark. The sick man was hot with fever, and Hermione bent over him and laid her cool hand on his forehead.
Abruptly Maurice finished his letter and thrust it into an envelope.
"Here, Gaspare!" he said. "Take the donkey and ride down with these to the post."
"How quick you have been, signore! I believe my letter to the signora is longer than yours."