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"
Again he pressed Artois' arm gently.
"But, amico mio, you are deceptive, you workers," he said. "You take
us all in. We are children beside you, we who say all we feel, who
show when we hate and when we love. We are babies. If I ever want to
become really birbante, I shall become a worker."
He spoke always lightly, laughingly; but Artois understood the malice
at his heart, and hesitated for a moment whether to challenge it
quietly and firmly, or whether laughingly, to accept the sly
imputations of secrecy, of hypocrisy, in a "not-worth-while" temper.
If things developed--and Artois felt that they must with such a
protagonist as the Marchesino--a situation might arise in which Doro's
enmity must come out into the open and be dealt with drastically. Till
then was it not best to ignore it, to fall in with his apparent
frivolity? Before Artois could decide--for his natural temper and an
under-sense of prudence and contempt pulled different ways--the
Marchesino suddenly released his arm, leaned over the balcony rail,
and looked eagerly down the road.


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