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And now Ruffo was singing it softly and rather proudly in the Italian,
to attract the attention of the dark figure he saw above him. He was
not certain who it was, but he thought it was the mother of the
Signorina, and--he did not exactly know why--he wished her to find out
that he was there, squatting on the dry rock with his back against the
cliff wall. The ladies of the Casa del Mare had been very kind to him,
and to-night he was not very happy, and vaguely he longed for
sympathy.
Hermione listened to the pretty, tripping words, the happy, youthful
words. And Ruffo sang them again, still very softly.
"Oh, dolce luna bianca de l' Estate--"
And the poor nomad wandering in the desert? But she had known the
rapture of youth, the sweet white moons of summer in the South. She
had known them long ago for a little while, and therefore she knew
them while she lived. A woman's heart is tenacious, and wide as the
world, when it contains that world which is the memory of something
perfect that gave it satisfaction.


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