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Ever since the tragic death of the beloved
master, whom he still always spoke of as "mio Padrone," he had been
Hermione's faithful attendant and devoted friend. Yes, she knew him to
be that--she wished him to be that. Their stations in life might be
different, but they had come to sorrow together. They had suffered
together and been in sympathy while they suffered. He had loved what
she had loved, lost it when she had lost it, wept for it when she had
wept.
And he had been with her when she had waited for the coming of the
child.
Hermione really cared for three people: Gaspare was one of them. He
knew it. The other two were Vere and Emile Artois.
"Vere," said Artois, taking her two hands closely in his large hands,
and gazing into her face with the kind, even affectionate directness
that she loved in him: "do you know that to-day you are looking
insolent?"
"Insolent!" said the girl. "How dare you!"
She tried to take her hands away.
"Insolently young," he said, keeping them authoritatively.


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