There was a sound of eager youth in her voice as she spoke, and her eyes suddenly shone. The Marchesino looked at her with an admiration he did not try to conceal.
But Vere's enthusiasm abruptly vanished, as if she feared that he might destroy its completeness by trying to share it.
"Oh yes," she said. "We all do here; Madre, Gaspare, Monsieur Emile--everybody."
It was the first time the name of Artois had been mentioned among them that day. The Marchesino's full red lips tightened over his large white teeth.
"I have not seen Signor Emilio for some days," he said.
"Nor have we," said Vere, with a touch of childish discontent.
Emilio--he knew all about Emilio. But the Signorina? What were her feelings towards the "vecchio briccone"? He did not understand the situation, because he did not understand precisely the nature of madness of the English. Had the ladies been Neapolitans, Emilio an Italian, he would have felt on sure ground. But in England, so he had heard, there is a fantastic, cold, sexless something called friendship that can exist between unrelated man and woman.
"Don Emilio writes much," he said, with less than his usual alacrity. "When one goes to see him he has always a pen in his hand."
He tried to speak of Emilio with complete detachment, but could not resist adding:
"When one is an old man one likes to sit, one cannot be forever running to and fro. One gets tired, I suppose."
There was marked satire in the accent with which he said the last words. And the shrug of his shoulders was an almost audible "What can I know of that?"
"Monsieur Emile writes because he has a great brain, not because he has a tired body," said Vere, with sudden warmth.
"Oh, Signorina, I do not mean--But for a man to be always shut up," began the Marchesino, "it is not life."
"You don't understand, Marchese. One can live in a little room with the door shut as one can never live--"
Abruptly she stopped. A flush ran over her face and down to her neck. Hermione turned away her eyes. But they had read Vere's secret. She knew what her child was doing in those hours of seclusion. And she remembered her own passionate attempts to stave off despair by work. She remembered her own failure.
"Poor little Vere!" That was her first thought. "But what is Emile doing?" That was the second. He had discouraged her. He had told her the truth. What was he telling Vere? A flood of bitter curiosity seemed to rise in her, drowning many things.