"Oh, I don't think you'd better, Hermione," he answered, hastily. "I—you—there might be people. I—I must rig you up something first, a tent of some kind. Gaspare and I will do it. I can't have my wife—"
"All right," she said.
She tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice.
"How lucky you men are! You can do anything. And there's no fuss. Ah, there's poor Emile, patiently waiting!"
Artois was already established once more in the chaise longue. He greeted them with a smile that was gentle, almost tender. Those evil feelings to which he had been a prey in London had died away. He loved now to see the happiness in Hermione's face. His illness had swept out his selfishness, and in it he had proved her affection. He did not think that he could ever be jealous of her again.
"Sleeping all this time?" he said.
"I was. I'm ashamed of myself. My hair is full of mountain-side, but you must forgive me, Emile. Ah, there's Lucrezia! Is tea ready, Lucrezia?"
"Si, signora."
"Then ask Gaspare to bring it."
"Gaspare—he isn't here, signora. But I'll bring it."