And these English, who pride themselves
upon their propriety, their stiffness, their cold respectability!
These English misses!
"Ouf!"
It was out of the Marchesino's mouth before he was aware of it, an
exclamation of cynical disgust.
"What's the matter, amico mio?" said Artois, in a low voice.
"Niente!" said the Marchesino, recollecting himself. "Are not you
going to sleep?"
"Yes," said Artois, throwing away his cigar end. "I am. And you?"
"I too!"
The Marchesino was surprised by his friend's reply. He did not
understand the desire of Artois not to have his sense of the romance
of their situation broken in upon by conversation just then. The
romance of women was not with Artois, but the romance of Nature was.
He wanted to keep it. And now he settled himself a little lower in the
boat, under the shadow of its side, and seemed to be giving himself to
sleep.
The Marchesino thanked the Madonna, and made his little pretence of
slumber too, but he kept his head above the gunwale, leaning it on his
arm with a supporting cushion beneath; and though he really did shut
both his eyes for a short time, to deceive caro Emilio, he very soon
opened them again, and gazed towards the islet.
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