Three days after Artois’ conversation with Hermione in the Grotto of Virgil the Marchesino Isidoro Panacci came smiling into his friend’s apartments in the Hotel Royal des Etrangers. He was smartly dressed in the palest possible shade of gray, with a bright pink tie, pink socks, brown shoes of the rather boat-like shape affected by many young Neopolitans, and a round straw hat, with a small brim, that was set slightly on the side of his curly head. In his mouth was a cigarette, and in his buttonhole a pink carnation. He took Artois’ hand with his left hand, squeezed it affectionately, murmured “Caro Emilio,” and sat down in an easy attitude on the sofa, putting his hat and stick on a table near by.

It was quite evident that he had come for no special reason. He had just dropped in, as he did whenever he felt inclined, to gossip with “Caro Emilio,” and it never occurred to him that possibly he might be interrupting an important piece of work. The Marchesino could not realize work. He knew his friend published books. He even saw him sometimes actually engaged in writing them, pen in hand. But he was sure anybody would far rather sit and chatter with him, or hear him play a valse on the piano, or a bit of the “Boheme,” than bend over a table all by himself. And Artois always welcomed him. He liked him. But it was not only that which made him complaisant. Doro was a type, and a singularly perfect one.

Now Artois laid down his pen, and pulled forward an arm-chair opposite to the sofa.

“Mon Dieu, Doro! How fresh you look, like a fish just pulled out of the sea!”

The Marchesino showed his teeth in a smile which also shone in his round and boyish eyes.

“I have just come out of the sea. Papa and I have been bathing at the Eldorado. We swam round the Castello until we were opposite your windows, and sang ‘Funiculi, funicula!’ in the water, to serenade you. Why didn’t you hear us? Papa has a splendid voice, almost like Tamagno’s in the gramophone, when he sings the ‘Addio’ from ‘Otello.’ Of course we kept a little out at sea. Papa is so easily recognized by his red mustaches. But still you might have heard us.”

“I did.”

“Then why didn’t you come unto the balcony, amico mio?”

“Because I thought you were street singers.”

“Davvero? Papa would be angry. And he is in a bad temper to-day anyhow.”

“Why?”

“Well, I believe Gilda Mai is going to bring a causa against Viviano. Of course he won’t marry her, and she never expected he could. Why, she used to be a milliner in the Toledo. I remember it perfectly, and now Sigismondo—But it’s really Gilda that has made papa angry. You see, he has paid twice for me, once four thousand lire, and the other time three thousand five hundred. And then he has lost a lot at Lotto lately. He has no luck. And then he, too, was in a row yesterday evening.”

“The Marchese?”

“Yes, in the Chiaia. He slapped Signora Merani’s face twice before every one.”

“Diavolo! What! a lady?”

“Well, if you like to call her so,” returned Doro, negligently. “Her husband is an impiegato of the Post-office, or something of the kind.”

“But why should the Marchese slap her face in the Chiaia?”

“Because she provoked him. They took a flat in the house my father owns in the Strada Chiatamone. After a time they got behind with the rent. He let them stay on for six months without paying, and then he turned them out. What should he do?” Doro began to gesticulate. He held his right hand up on a level with his face, with the fingers all drawn together and pressed against the thumb, and moved it violently backwards and forwards, bringing it close to the bridge of his nose, then throwing it out towards Artois. “What else, I say? Was he to give his beautiful rooms to them for nothing? And she with a face like—have you, I ask you, Emilio, have you seen her teeth?”

“I have never seen the Signora in my life!”

“You have never seen her teeth? Dio Mio!” He opened his two hands, and, lifting his arms, shook them loosely above his head, shutting his eyes for an instant as if to ward off some dreadful vision. “They are like the keys of a piano from Bordicelli’s! Basta!” He dropped his hands and opened his eyes. “Yesterday papa was walking in the Chiaia. He met Signori Merani, and she began to abuse him. She had a red parasol. She shook it at him! She called him vigliacco—papa, a Panacci, dei Duchi di Vedrano! The parasol—it was a bright red, it infuriated papa. He told the Signora to stop. She knows his temper. Every one in Naples knows our tempers, every one! I, Viviano, even Sigismondo, we are all the same, we are all exactly like papa. If we are insulted we cannot control ourselves. You know it, Emilio!”

“I am perfectly certain of it,” said Artois. “I am positive you none of you can.”

“It does not matter whether it is a man or a woman. We must do something with our hands. We have got to. Papa told the Signora he should strike her at once unless she put down the red parasol and was silent. What did she do, the imbecile? She stuck out her face like this,”—he thrust his face forward with the right cheek turned towards Artois—“and said, ‘Strike me! strike me!’ Papa obeyed her. Poom! Poom! He gave her a smack on each cheek before every one. ‘You want education!’ he said to her. ‘And I shall give it you.’ And now she may bring a processo too. But did you really think we were street singers?” He threw himself back, took the cigarette from his mouth, and laughed. Then he caught hold of his blond mustache with both hands, gave it an upward twist, at the same time pouting his big lips, and added:

“We shall bring a causa against you for that!”

“No, Doro, you and I must never quarrel. By the way, though, I want to see you angry. Every one talks of the Panacci temper, but when I am with you I always see you smiling or laughing. As to the Marchese, he is as lively as a boy. Viviano—”

“Oh, Viviano is a buffone. Have you ever seen him imitate a monkey from whom another monkey has snatched a nut?”

“No.”

“It is like this—”

With extraordinary suddenness he distorted his whole face into the likeness of an angry ape, hunching his shoulders and uttering fierce simian cries.

“No, I can’t do it.”

With equal suddenness and self-possession he became his smiling self again.

“Viviano has studied in the monkey-house. And the monk looking the other way when he passes along the Marina where the women are bathing in the summer! He shall do that for you on Sunday afternoon when you come to Capodimonte. It makes even mamma die of laughing, and you know how religious she is. But then, of course, men—that does not matter. Religion is for women, and they understand that quite well.”

The Marchesino never made any pretence of piety. One virtue he had in the fullest abundance. He was perfectly sincere with those whom he considered his friends. That there could be any need for hypocrisy never occurred to him.

“Mamma would hate it if we were saints,” he continued.

“I am sure the Marchesa can be under no apprehension on that score,” said Artois.

“No, I don’t think so,” returned the Marchesino, quite seriously.

He had a sense of humor, but it did not always serve him. Occasionally it was fitful, and when summoned by irony remained at a distance.

“It is true, Emilio, you have never seen me angry,” he continued, reverting to the remark of Artois; “you ought to. Till you have seen a Panacci angry you do not really know him. With you, of course, I could never be angry—never, never. You are my friend, my comrade. To you I tell everything.”

A sudden remembrance seemed to come to him. Evidently a new thought had started into his active mind, for his face suddenly changed, and became serious, even sentimental.

“What is it?” asked Artois.

“To-day, just now in the sea, I have seen a girl—Madonna! Emilio, she had a little nose that was perfect—perfect. How she was simpatica! What a beautiful girl!”

His whole face assumed a melting expression, and he pursed his lips in the form of a kiss.

“She was in the sea, too?” asked Artois.

“No. If she had been! But I was with papa. It was just after we had been serenading you. She had heard us, I am sure, for she was laughing. I dived under the boat in which she was. I did all my tricks for her. I did the mermaid and the seal. She was delighted. She never took her eyes from me. As to papa—she never glanced at him. Poor papa! He was angry. She had her mother with her, I think—a Signora, tall, flat, ugly, but she was simpatica, too. She had nice eyes, and when I did the seal she could not help laughing, though I think she was rather sad.”

“What sort of boat were they in?” Artois asked, with sudden interest.

“A white boat with a green line.”

“And they were coming from the direction of Posilipo?”

“Ma si! Emilio, do you know them? Do you know the perfect little nose?”

The Marchesino laid one hand eagerly on the arm of his friend.

“I believe you do! I am sure of it! The mother—she is flat as a Carabiniere, and quite old, but with nice eyes, sympathetic, intelligent. And the girl is a little brown—from the sun—with eyes full of fun and fire, dark eyes. She may be Italian, and yet—there is something English, too. But she is not blonde, she is not cold. And when she laughs! Her teeth are not like the keys of a piano from Bordicelli’s. And she is full of passion, of flame, of sentiment, as I am. And she is young, perhaps sixteen. Do you know her? Present me, Emilio! I have presented you to all my friends.”

“Mio caro, you have made me your debtor for life.”

“It isn’t true!”

“Indeed it is true. But I do not know who these ladies are. They may be Italians. They may be tourists. Perhaps to-morrow they will have left Naples. Or they may come from Sorrento, Capri. How can I tell who they are?”

The Marchesino suddenly changed. His ardor vanished. His gesticulating hands fell to his sides. His expressive face grew melancholy.

“Of course. How can you tell? Directly I was out of the sea and dressed, I went to Santa Lucia. I examined every boat, but the white boat with the green line was not there, Basta!”

He lit a fresh cigarette and was silent for a moment. Then he said:

“Emilio caro, will you come out with me to-night?”

“With pleasure.”

“In the boat. There will be a moon. We will dine at the Antico Giuseppone.”

“So far off as that?” Artois said, rather abruptly.

“Why not? To-day I hate the town. I want tranquility. At the Antico Giuseppone there will be scarcely any one. It is early in the season. And afterwards we will fish for sarde, or saraglie. Take me away from Naples, Emilio; take me away! For to-night, if I stay—well, I feel that I shall not be santo.”

Artois burst into his big roaring laugh.

“And why do you want to be santo to-night?” he asked.

“The beautiful girl! I wish to keep her memory, if only for one night.”

“Very well, then. We will fish, and you shall be a saint.”

“Caro Emilio! Perhaps Viviano will come, too. But I think he will be with Lidia. She is singing to-night at the Teatro Nuovo. Be ready at half-past seven. I will call for you. And now I shall leave you.”

He got up, went over to a mirror, carefully arranged his tie, and put on his straw hat at exactly the most impudent angle.

“I shall leave you to write your book while I meet papa at the villa. Do you know why papa is so careful to be always at the villa at four o’clock just now?”

“No!”

“Nor does mamma! If she did! Povera mamma! But she can always go to Mass. A rivederci, Emilio.”

He moved his hat a little more to one side and went out, swinging his walking-stick gently to and fro in a manner that was pensive and almost sentimental.