The Call of the Blood - Page 20/317

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.