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Then cunning came to stop the battle.
"You have heard of Peppina, Signore? You have never seen her?"
Artois played with her for a moment.
"Never."
Her smile widened. She put up her thin hands to her hair, her bonnet,
coquettishly.
"There is not a girl in Naples as beautiful as Peppina. Mother of--"
But the game was too loathsome with such a player.
"Beautiful! Macche!"
He laughed, made a gesture of pulling out a knife and smashing his
face with it.
"Beautiful! Per Dio!"
The coquetry, the cunning, dropped out of the long, pale face.
"The Signore knows?"
"Ma si! All Naples knows."
The old woman's face became terrible. Her two hands shot up, dropped,
shot up again, imprecating, cursing the world, the sky, the whole
scheme of the universe, it seemed. She chattered like an ape. Artois
soothed her with a ten-lire note.
That night, when he went back to the hotel, he had heard the aunt's
version of Peppina, and knew--that which really he had known before--
that Hermione had taken her to live on the island.


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