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The Marchesino was standing near the window. When he saw the face of
Artois he sat down in an arm-chair and put his hat on the floor.
"You don't mind if I stay for a few minutes, Emilio?" he said. "Have
you anything to drink? I am thirsty after all this walking in the
crowd."
Artois brought him some Nocera and lemons.
"Do you want brandy, whiskey?"
"No, no. Grazie."
He poured out the Nocera gently, and began carefully to squeeze some
lemon-juice into it, holding the fruit lightly in his strong fingers,
and watching the drops fall with a quiet attention.
"Where have you been to-night?"
The Marchesino looked up.
"In the Piazza di Masaniello."
"Where have you been?"
"I tell you--the Piazza, the Mercato, down one or two streets to see
the illuminations. What's the matter, caro mio? Are you angry because
we lost you in the crowd?"
"You intended to lose us in the crowd before we left the hotel
to-night."
"Not at all, amico mio. Not at all."
His voice hardened again, the furrows appeared on his forehead.


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