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"
"I don't know whether you forgot. But you never came."
As Hermione spoke, suddenly she felt as if Gaspare, too, were going,
perhaps, to drift from her. She looked at him with an almost sharp
intensity which hardened her whole face. Was he, too, being insincere
with her, he whom she trusted implicitly?
"Did you forget, Gaspare?" she said.
"Signora," he repeated, with a certain, almost ugly doggedness, "I was
tired. Forgive me."
She felt sure that he had chosen deliberately not to come to her for
the evening salutation. It was a trifle, yet to-night it hurt her. For
a moment she was silent, and he was silent, looking down at the floor.
Then she opened her lips to dismiss him. She intended to say a curt
"Good-night"; but--no--she could not let Gaspare retreat from her
behind impenetrable walls of obstinate reserve. And she did know his
nature through and through. If he was odd to-night, unlike himself,
there was some reason for it; and it could not be a reason that, known
to her, would make her think badly of him.


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