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"You have made a mistake about me," he said. "But it is of no
consequence. Look! There is another goose coming."
He pointed with his cane in the direction of the chatterers near the
kiosk.
"It is papa! It is papa!"
"Pardon! I did not recognize--"
The Marchesino got up.
"Let us go there. The Marchesa with papa--it is better than the
Compagnia Scarpetta! I will present you."
But Artois was in no mood for a cataract of nothingness.
"Not now," he said. "I have--"
The Marchesino shot a cruel glance of impudent comprehension at him,
and touched his left hand in token of farewell.
"I know! I know! The quickest horse to the Toledo. A-ah! A-ah! May the
writer's saint go with you! Addio, mio caro!"
There was a hint of real malice in his voice. He cocked his hat and
strutted away towards the veils and the piercing voices. Artois stared
after him for a moment, then walked across the garden to the sea, and
leaned against the low wall looking towards Capri. He was vexed at
this little episode--unreasonably vexed.


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