Gaspare was there. It was his hour of repose, and he was smoking a
cigarette. He was dressed in white linen, without a coat, and had a
white linen hat on his head. He stood near the house, apparently
looking out to sea. And his pose was meditative. Hermione watched him.
The sight of him reminded her of another question she wished to ask.
Gaspare had one hand in the pocket of his white trousers. With the
other he held the cigarette. Hermione saw the wreaths of pale smoke
curling up and evaporating in the shining, twinkling air, which seemed
full of joyous, dancing atoms. But presently his hand forgot to do its
work. The cigarette, only half smoked, went out, and he stood there as
if plunged in profound thought. Hermione wondered what he was thinking
about.
"Gaspare!"
She said it softly. Evidently he did not hear.
"Gaspare! Gaspare!"
Each time she spoke a little louder, but still he took no notice.
She leaned farther out and called:
"Gaspare!"
This time he heard and started violently, dropped the cigarette, then,
without looking up, bent down slowly, recovered it, and turned round.
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