"I am glad the signora is awake!" he said. "Signorino, let us get off the
donkeys and leave them at the arch, and let us go in without any noise."
"But perhaps the signora knows that we are here," Maurice said.
Directly he had heard the music he had known that Hermione was aware of
their approach.
"No, no, signore. I am sure she does not, or she would have come out to
meet us. Let us leave the donkeys!"
He sprang off softly. Mechanically, Maurice followed his example.
"Now, signore!"
The boy took him by the hand and led him on tiptoe to the terrace, making
him crouch down close to the open French window. The "Pastorale" was
louder here. It never ceased, but returned again and again with the
delicious monotony that made it memorable and wove a spell round those
who loved it. As he listened to it, Maurice fancied he could hear the
breathing of the player, and he felt that she was listening, too,
listening tensely for footsteps on the terrace.
Gaspare looked up at him with bright eyes. The boy's whole face was alive
with a gay and mischievous happiness, as he turned the handle at the back
of his clock slowly, slowly, till at last it would turn no more. Then
there tinkled forth to join the "Pastorale" the clear, trilling melody of
the "Tre Colori."
The music in the room ceased abruptly. There was a rustling sound as the
player moved. Then Hermione's voice, with something trembling through it
that was half a sob, half a little burst of happy laughter, called out: "Gaspare, how dare you interrupt my concert?"
"Signora! Signora!" cried Gaspare, and, springing up, he darted into the
sitting-room.
But Maurice, though he lifted himself up quickly, stood where he was with
his hand set hard against the wall of the house. He heard Gaspare kiss
Hermione's hand. Then he heard her say: "But, but, Gaspare----"
He took his hand from the wall with an effort. His feet seemed glued to
the ground, but at last he was in the room.
"Hermione!" he said.
"Maurice!"
He felt her strong hands, strong and yet soft like all the woman, on his.
"Cento di questi giorni!" she said. "Ah, but it is better than all the
birthdays in the world!"
He wanted to kiss her--not to please her, but for himself he wanted to
kiss her--but he dared not. He felt that if his lips were to touch
hers--she must know. To excuse his avoidance of the natural greeting he
looked at Gaspare.