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Ecco! You do not--"
Artois understood.
"You saw me last night?"
"Ma si! All Naples saw you. Do you not know that the Galleria is full
--but full--of eyes?"
"Va bene! But you don't understand."
"Emilio!"
He shrugged his shoulders, lifted his hands, his eyebrows. His whole
being seemed as if it were about to mount ironically towards heaven.
"You don't understand. I repeat it."
Artois spoke quietly, but there was a sound in his voice which caused
his frivolous companion to stare at him with an inquiry that was, for
a moment, almost sulky.
"You forget, Doro, how old I am."
"What has that to do with it?"
"You forget--"
Artois was about to allude to his real self, to point out the
improbability of a man so mental, so known, so travelled as he was,
falling like a school-boy publicly into a sordid adventure. But he
stopped, realizing the uselessness of such an explanation. And he
could not tell the Marchesino the truth of his shadowy colloquy in a
by-street with the old creature from behind the shutter.


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