"Famous though it is, Frisio's does not draw the crowd," said Hermione.
To-night she found it oddly difficult to talk to her friend, although she had refused the Marchesino's invitation on purpose to do so.
"Perhaps people were afraid of the storm."
"It is close," he said. "Don't you feel it? I do."
His voice was heavy with melancholy, and made her feel sad, even apprehensive.
She followed his example and leaned out of the great window. Not a star was visible in all the sky.
"You are right. It is coming. I feel it now. The sea is like lead, and the sky, too. There is no sense of freedom to-night, no out-of-doors feeling. And the water is horribly calm."
As they both leaned out they heard, away to the left at some distance, the voices of Vere and the Marchesino.
"I stayed because I thought--I fancied all the chatter was getting a little on your nerves, Emile," Hermione said now. "They are so absurdly young, both of them. Wasn't it so?"
"Am I so old that youth should get upon my nerves?" he returned, with a creeping irritation, which, however, he tried to keep out of his voice.
"No. But of course we can hardly enjoy nonsense that might amuse them immensely. Vere is such a baby, and your friend is a regular boy, in spite of his self-assurance."
"Women often fancy men to be young in ways in which they are not young," said Artois. "Panacci is very much of a man, I can assure you."
"Panacci! I never heard you call him that before."
Her eager brown eyes went to his face curiously for a moment. Artois saw that, and said, rather hastily:
"It's true that nearly every one calls him Doro."
Once more they heard the chattering voices, and then a sound of laughter in the darkness. It made Hermione smile, but Artois moved uneasily. Just then there came to them from the sea, like a blow, a sudden puff of wind. It hit their faces.
"Do you want to avoid the storm?" Artois said.
"I am sure you can only avoid it by going at once. Look!"
He pointed towards the sea. The blackness before them was cut at some distance off by a long, level line of white.
"What's that?" asked Hermione, peering out.
The wind struck them again. It was like a hot, almost like a sweating hand, coarse and violent, and repugnant.
"There is something disgusting in nature to-night," she said--"something that seems almost unnatural."