"So he is. He is the friend of both of us."
Gaspare said nothing for a moment. His mind was working busily. At last he said:
"Then Maddalena—when the signora comes will she be the friend of the signora, as well as your friend?"
"Maddalena—that has nothing to do with it."
"But Maddalena is your friend!"
"That's quite different."
"I do not understand how it is in England," Gaspare said, gravely. "But"—and he nodded his head wisely and spread out his hands—"I understand many things, signorino, perhaps more than you think. You do not want the signore to come. You are angry at his coming."
"He is a very kind signore," said Maurice, hastily. "And he can speak dialetto."
Gaspare smiled and shook his head again. But he did not say anything more. For a moment Maurice had an impulse to speak to him frankly, to admit him into the intimacy of a friend. He was a Sicilian, although he was only a boy. He was Sicilian and he would understand.
"Gaspare," he began.