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Hermione and Artois were smiling. Artois felt something for Vere just
then that he could hardly have explained, master though he was of
explanation of the feelings of man. It seemed to him that all the
purity, and the beauty, and the whimsical unselfconsciousness, and the
touchingness of youth that is divine, appeared in that little, almost
comic action of the girl. He loved her for the action, because she was
able to perform it just like that. And something in him, suddenly
adored youth in a way that seemed new to his heart.
"Well," said Hermione, when Ruffo had disappeared. "Will you come in?
I'm afraid all the servants are in bed, but--"
"No, indeed it is too late," Artois said.
Without being aware of it he spoke with an authority that was almost
stern.
"We must be off to our fishing," he added. "Good-night. Good-night,
Vere."
"Good-night, Signora."
The Marchesino bowed, with his hat in his hand. He kissed Hermione's
hand again, but he did not try to take Vere's.


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