"And I, too," said Maurice; "and Maddalena, but not till then."

What a long time away that would be!

"Here is the ristorante!"

They had reached a long room with doors open onto the square, opposite to

the rows of booths which were set up under the shadow of the church.

Outside of it were many small tables and numbers of chairs on which

people were sitting, contemplating the movement of the crowd of buyers

and sellers, smoking, drinking syrups, gazzosa, and eating ices and flat

biscuits.

Gaspare guided them through the throng to a long table set on a sanded

floor.

"Ecco, signorino!"

He installed Maurice at the top of the table.

"And you sit here, Donna Maddalena."

He placed her at Maurice's right hand, and was going to sit down himself

on the left, when Salvatore roughly pushed in before him, seized the

chair, sat in it, and leaned his arms on the table with a loud laugh that

sounded defiant. An ugly look came into Gaspare's face.

"Macchè--" he began, angrily.

But Maurice silenced him with a quick look.

"Gaspare, you come here, by Maddalena!"

"Ma--"

"Come along, Gasparino, and tell us what we are to have. You must order

everything. Where's the cameriere? Cameriere! Cameriere!"

He struck on his glass with a fork. A waiter came running.

"Don Gaspare will order for us all," said Maurice to him, pointing to

Gaspare.

His diplomacy was successful. Gaspare's face cleared, and in a moment he

was immersed in an eager colloquy with the waiter, another friend of his

from Marechiaro. Amedeo Buccini took a place by Gaspare, and all those

from Marechiaro, who evidently considered that they belonged to the

Inglese's party for the day, arranged themselves as they pleased and

waited anxiously for the coming of the macaroni.

A certain formality now reigned over the assembly. The movement of the

road in the outside world by the sea had stirred the blood, had loosened

tongues and quickened spirits. But a meal in a restaurant, with a rich

English signore presiding at the head of the table, was an unaccustomed

ceremony. Dark faces that had been lit up with laughter now looked almost

ludicrously discreet. Brown hands which had been in constant activity,

talking as plainly, and more expressively, than voices, now lay limply

upon the white cloth or were placed upon knees motionless as the knees of

statues. And all eyes were turned towards the giver of the feast, mutely

demanding of him a signal of conduct to guide his inquiring guests. But

Maurice, too, felt for the moment tongue-tied. He was very sensitive to

influences, and his present position, between Maddalena and her father,

created within him a certain confusion of feelings, an odd sensation of

being between two conflicting elements. He was conscious of affection and

of enmity, both close to him, both strong, the one ready to show itself,

the other determined to remain in hiding. He glanced at Salvatore, and

met the fisherman's keen gaze. Behind the instant smile in the glittering

eyes he divined, rather than saw, the shadow of his hatred. And for a

moment he wondered. Why should Salvatore hate him? It was reasonable to

hate a man for a wrong done, even for a wrong deliberately contemplated

with intention--the intention of committing it. But he had done no real

wrong to Salvatore. Nor had he any evil intention with regard to him or

his. So far he had only brought pleasure into their lives, his life and

Maddalena's--pleasure and money. If there had been any secret pain

engendered by their mutual intercourse it was his. And this day was the

last of their intimacy, though Salvatore and Maddalena did not know it.

Suddenly a desire, an almost weak desire, came to him to banish

Salvatore's distrust of him, a distrust which he was more conscious of at

this moment than ever before.




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