Hermione drew her chair nearer.
"What a clear handwriting!" she said.
"Yes, isn't it? 'Vedi Napoli e poi mori.' "
"Where are you going to write?"
He was looking towards the outer room of the restaurant which led onto
the terrace.
He turned the leaves.
"I?--oh--here is a space."
He took up a pen the Padrone had brought, dipped it into the ink.
"What's the good?" he said, making a movement as if to push the book
away.
"No; do write."
"Why should I?"
"I agree with Vere. Your name will add something worth having to the
book."
"Oh, well--"
A rather bitter expression had come into his face.
"Dead-sea fruit!" he muttered.
But he bent, wrote something quickly, signed his name, blotted and
shut the book. Hermione had not been able to see the sentence he had
written. She did not ask what it was.
There was a noise of rather shuffling footsteps on the paved floor of
the room. Three musicians had come in. They were shabbily dressed. One
was very short, stout, and quite blind, with a gaping mouth that had
an odd resemblance to an elephant's mouth when it lifts its trunk and
shows its rolling tongue.
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