She went away.
"Where's Gaspare, I wonder?" said Hermione. "Have you seen him, Emile?"
"No."
"Perhaps he's sleeping, too. He sleeps generally among the hens."
She looked round the corner into the out-house.
"No, he isn't there. Have you sent him anywhere, Maurice?"
"I? No. Where should I—"
"I only thought you looked as if you knew where he was."
"No. But he may have gone out after birds and forgotten the time. Here's tea!"
These few words had renewed in Maurice the fever of impatience to get away and meet his enemy. This waiting, this acting of a part, this suspense, were almost unbearable. All the time that Hermione slept he had been thinking, turning over again and again in his mind the coming scene, trying to imagine how it would be, how violent or how deadly, trying to decide exactly what line of conduct he should pursue. What would Salvatore demand? What would he say or do? And where would they meet? If Salvatore waited for his coming they would meet at the House of the Sirens. And Maddalena? She would be there. His heart sickened. He was ready to face a man—but not Maddalena. He thought of Gaspare's story of the fallen olive-branch upon which Salvatore had spat. It was strange to be here in this calm place with these two happy people, wife and friend, and to wonder what was waiting for him down there by the sea.