Artois suddenly set his lips together in his beard. For an instant it
seemed to him that the years had rolled back, that he was in London,
in Caminiti's restaurant, that he saw Maurice Delarey, with the
reverential expression on his face that had been so pleasing. Yes, the
boy Ruffo looked like him in that moment, as he stood there, wishing
to do his devoir, to be polite, but not knowing how to.

"Never mind, Ruffo," It was Vere's voice. "We understand! Or--shall
I?" A laughing look came into her face. She went up to the boy and,
with a delicious, childish charm and delicacy, that quite removed the
action from impertinence, she took his cap off. "There!" She put it
gently back on his dark hair. "Now you've been polite to us. Buona
notte!"

"Buona notte, Signorina."

The boy ran off, half laughing, and carrying carefully the cigarettes
in his hands still held together like a cup.

Hermione and Artois were smiling. Artois felt something for Vere just
then that he could hardly have explained, master though he was of
explanation of the feelings of man. It seemed to him that all the
purity, and the beauty, and the whimsical unselfconsciousness, and the
touchingness of youth that is divine, appeared in that little, almost
comic action of the girl. He loved her for the action, because she was
able to perform it just like that. And something in him, suddenly
adored youth in a way that seemed new to his heart.

"Well," said Hermione, when Ruffo had disappeared. "Will you come in?
I'm afraid all the servants are in bed, but--"