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Had she been a typical English girl he might have
discerned something of the truth of her. But Vere was lively, daring,
passionate, and not without some traces of half-humorous and wholly
innocent coquetry. She was not at all what the Neapolitan calls "a
lump of snow to cool the wine." In her innocence there was fire. That
was what confused the Marchesino.
He stared at the cabin door by which Vere had gone out, and his round
eyes became almost pathetic for a moment. Then it occurred to him that
perhaps this exit was a second ruse, like Vere's departure to the
terrace, and he made a movement as if to go out and brave the storm.
But Hermione stopped him decisively.
"No, Marchese," she said, "really I cannot let you expose yourself to
the rain and the sea in that airy costume. I might be your mother."
"Signora, but you--"
"No, compliments apart, I really might be, and you must let me use a
mother's authority. Till we reach the island stay here and make the
best of me."
Hermione had touched the right note.


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