His days of doubt and fury were forgotten. His jealousy of Emilio
vanished in a cloud of happy contempt for the disabilities of age, and
he began to talk to Vere with a vivacity that was truly Neapolitan.
When the Marchesino was joyous he had charm, the charm that emanates
from the bounding life that flows in the veins of youth. Even the
Puritan feels, and fears, the grace that is Pagan. The Marchesino had
a Pagan grace. And now it returned to him and fell about him like a
garment, clothing body and soul. And Vere seemed to respond to it. She
began to chatter, too. She talked lightly, flicking him with little
whips of sarcasm that did not hurt, but only urged him on. The humor
of a festa might begin to flow from these two.
And again, instead of infecting Artois, it seemed to set him apart, to
rebuke silently his gifts, his fame--to tell him that they were
useless, that they could do nothing for him.
The Marchesino was not troubled with an intellect. Yet with what ease
he found words to play with the words of Vere! His Latin vivacity
seemed a perfect substitute for thought, for imagination, for every
subtlety.
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