"I can't dance it, of course. It was absurd of me to try."
"Ask Gaspare! No, I'll ask him. Gaspare, can the padrone dance the tarantella?"
"Eh—altro!" said Gaspare, with admiring conviction.
He got off Giuseppe's knee, where he had been curled up almost like a big kitten, came and stood by Hermione, and added:
"Per Dio, signora, but the padrone is like one of us!"
Hermione laughed. Now that the dance was over and the twittering flute was silent, her sense of loneliness and melancholy was departing. Soon, no doubt, she would be able to look back upon it and laugh at it as one laughs at moods that have passed away.
"This is his first day in Sicily, Gaspare."
"There are forestieri who come here every year, and who stay for months, and who can talk our language—yes, and can even swear in dialetto as we can—but they are not like the padrone. Not one of them could dance the tarantella like that. Per Dio!"
A radiant look of pleasure came into Maurice's face.
"I'm glad you've brought me here," he said. "Ah, when you chose this place for our honeymoon you understood me better than I understand myself, Hermione."