"
Gaspare started, looked up quickly, darted at his Padrona a searching
glance of inquiry.
"What is it?" she said.
"Niente!"
He kept his eyes on her, staring with a tremendous directness that was
essentially southern. And she returned his gaze.
"I was with Ruffo this evening. We talked, and he told me that he met
you at the Festa last night. He told me, too, that he was with his
mother."
She waited to give him a chance of speaking, of forestalling any
question. But he only stared at her with dilated eyes.
"He told me that you knew his mother, and that his mother knew you."
"Why not?"
"Of course, there is no reason. What surprised me rather"--she was
speaking more slowly now, and more unevenly--"was this--"
"Si?"
Gaspare's voice was loud. He lifted up his hands and laid them heavily
on his knees.
"Si?" he repeated.
"After you had spoken with her, she cried, Ruffo's mother cried,
Gaspare. And she said, 'To think of its being Gaspare on the island!'"
"Is that all?"
"No.
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