"Emile may leave at once. But there is no good boat till the 10th. We shall take that...."
Hermione's writing!
Artois understood at once. Maurice had had Hermione's letter. He had known they were coming from Africa, and he had gone to the fair despite that knowledge. He had gone with the girl who wept and prayed beside the sea.
His hand closed over the paper.
"What is it, Emile? What have you picked up?"
"Only a little bit of paper."
He spoke quietly, tore it into tiny fragments and let them go upon the wind.
"When will you come with me, Hermione? When shall we go to Italy?"
"I am saying 'a rivederci' now"—she dropped her voice—"and buon riposo."
The white fragments blew away into the gathering night, separated from one another by the careful wind.