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Metaphorically, the Marchesino
cast himself at her feet. With a gallant assumption of undivided
adoration he burst into conversation, and, though his eyes often
wandered to the blurred glass, against which pressed and swayed a
blackness that told of those outside, his sense of his duty as a host
gradually prevailed, and he and Hermione were soon talking quite
cheerfully together.
Vere had forgotten him as utterly as she had forgotten Naples,
swallowed up by the night. Just then only the sea, the night, Gaspare,
and the two sailors who were managing the launch were real to her--
besides herself. For a moment even her mother had ceased to exist in
her consciousness. As the sea swept the deck of the little craft it
swept her mind clear to make more room for itself.
She stood by Gaspare, touching him, and clinging on, as he did, to the
rail. Impenetrably black was the night. Only here and there, at
distances she could not begin to judge of, shone vaguely lights that
seemed to dance and fade and reappear like marsh lights in a world of
mist.


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