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"
"Monsieur Emile, you must write in the wonderful book of Frisio's,"
she exclaimed.
"We will all write, Signorina!" cried the Marchesino. "Bring the book,
Signor Masella!"
The Padrone hastened away to fetch it, but Vere shook her head.
"No, no, we must not write! We are nobodies. Monsieur Emile is a great
man. Only he is worthy of such a book. Isn't it so, Madre?"
Artois felt the color rising to his face at this unexpected remark of
the girl. He had been distrait during the dinner, certainly neither
brilliant nor amusing, despite his efforts to seem talkative and
cheerful. A depression had weighed upon him, as it had weighed upon
him in the launch during the voyage from the island. He had felt as if
he were apart, even almost as if he were /de trop/. Had Vere noticed
it? Was that the reason of this sudden and charming demonstration in
his favor?
He looked across at her, longing to know. But she was arguing gayly
with the Marchesino, who continued to insist that they must all write
their names as a souvenir of the occasion.


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