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He wanted to salute them, but did not know how to.
That was evident. His expressive eyes, his whole face told it to them.
Artois suddenly set his lips together in his beard. For an instant it
seemed to him that the years had rolled back, that he was in London,
in Caminiti's restaurant, that he saw Maurice Delarey, with the
reverential expression on his face that had been so pleasing. Yes, the
boy Ruffo looked like him in that moment, as he stood there, wishing
to do his devoir, to be polite, but not knowing how to.
"Never mind, Ruffo," It was Vere's voice. "We understand! Or--shall
I?" A laughing look came into her face. She went up to the boy and,
with a delicious, childish charm and delicacy, that quite removed the
action from impertinence, she took his cap off. "There!" She put it
gently back on his dark hair. "Now you've been polite to us. Buona
notte!"
"Buona notte, Signorina."
The boy ran off, half laughing, and carrying carefully the cigarettes
in his hands still held together like a cup.


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