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: