"Signorino, I felt that you were there."
He smiled. It pleased him to think that he threw out something, some invisible thread, perhaps, that reached her and told her of his nearness. Such communication made sympathy. He did not say it to himself, but his sensation to-night was that everything was in sympathy with him, the night with its stars, the sea with its airs and voices, Maddalena with her long eyes and her brown hands, and her knowledge of his presence when she did not see or hear him.
"Let us go down to the sea," he said.
He longed to be nearer to that low and level sound that moved and excited him in the night.
"Father's boat is there," she said. "It is so calm to-night that he did not bring it round into the bay."
"If we go out in it for a minute, will he mind?"
A sly look came into her face.
"He will not know," she said. "With all that money Gaspare and he will play till dawn. Per Dio, signore, you are birbante!"
She gave a little low laugh.
"So you think I—"