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In his friend Doro he now
discerned a possible enemy. An Italian who has trusted does not easily
forgive if he is not trusted in return. Artois was conscious of a
dawning hostility in the Marchesino. No doubt he could check it. Doro
was essentially good-tempered and light-hearted. He could check it by
an exhibition of frankness. But this frankness was impossible to him,
and as it was impossible he must allow Doro to suspect him of sordid
infamies. He knew, of course, the Neapolitan's habitual disbelief in
masculine virtue, and did not mind it. Then why should he mind Doro's
laughing thought of himself as one of the elderly crew who cling to
forbidden pleasures? Why should he feel sore, angry, almost insulted?
Vere rose before him, as one who came softly to bring him the answer
to his questionings. And he knew that his vexation arose from the
secret apprehension of a future in which he would desire to stand
between her and the Marchesino with clean hands, and tell Doro certain
truths which are universal, not national.


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