She got up and led the way out. The two men followed her, Artois coming
last. He noticed now more definitely the very great contrast between
Hermione and her future husband. Delarey, when in movement, looked more
than ever like a Mercury. His footstep was light and elastic, and his
whole body seemed to breathe out a gay activity, a fulness of the joy of
life. Again Artois thought of Sicilian boys dancing the tarantella, and
when they were in the small smoke-room, which Caminiti had fitted up in
what he believed to be Oriental style, and which, though scarcely
accurate, was quite cosey, he was moved to inquire: "Pardon me, monsieur, but are you entirely English?"
"No, monsieur. My mother has Sicilian blood in her veins. But I have
never been in Sicily or Italy."
"Ah, Emile," said Hermione, "how clever of you to find that out. I notice
it, too, sometimes, that touch of the blessed South. I shall take him
there some day, and see if the Southern blood doesn't wake up in his
veins when he's in the rays of the real sun we never see in England."
"She'll take you to Italy, you fortunate, damned dog!" thought Artois.
"What luck for you to go there with such a companion!"
They sat down and the two men began to smoke. Hermione never smoked
because she had tried smoking and knew she hated it. They were alone in
the room, which was warm, but not too warm, and faintly lit by shaded
lamps. Artois began to feel more genial, he scarcely knew why. Perhaps
the good dinner had comforted him, or perhaps he was beginning to yield
to the charm of Delarey's gay and boyish modesty, which was untainted and
unspoiled by any awkward shyness.
Artois did not know or seek to know, but he was aware that he was more
ready to be happy with the flying moment than he had been, or had
expected to be that evening. Something almost paternal shone in his gray
eyes as he stretched his large limbs on Caminiti's notion of a Turkish
divan, and watched the first smoke-wreaths rise from his cigar, a light
which made his face most pleasantly expressive to Hermione.
"He likes Maurice," she thought, with a glow of pleasure, and with the
thought came into her heart an even deeper love for Maurice. For it was a
triumph, indeed, if Artois were captured speedily by any one. It seemed
to her just then as if she had never known what perfect happiness was
till now, when she sat between her best friend and her lover, and
sensitively felt that in the room there were not three separate persons
but a Trinity. For a moment there was a comfortable silence. Then an
Italian boy brought in the coffee. Artois spoke to him in Italian. His
eyes lit up as he answered with the accent of Naples, lit up still more
when Artois spoke to him again in his own dialect. When he had served the
coffee he went out, glowing.