rightly, but Artois was not aware of it. His friend had deceived him,
as almost any sharp-witted Neapolitan can deceive even a clever
forestiere. Certainly he did not particularly wish to introduce his
friend to Vere. Yet now he was thinking of the two in connection, and
not without amusement. What would they be like together? How would
Vere's divine innocence receive the amiable seductions of the
Marchesino? Artois, in fancy, could see his friend Doro for once
completely disarmed by a child. Vere's innocence did not spring from
folly, but was backed up by excellent brains. It was that fact which
made it so beautiful. The innocence and the brains together might well
read Doro a pretty little lesson. And Vere after the lesson--would she
be changed? Would she lose by giving, even if the gift were a lesson?

Artois had certainly felt that his instinct told him not to do what
Doro wanted. He had been moved, he supposed now, by a protective
sentiment. Vere was delicious as she was. And Doro--he was delightful
as he was. The girl was enchanting in her ignorance. The youth--to
Artois the Marchesino seemed almost a boy, indeed, often quite a boy--
was admirable in his precocity. He embodied Naples, its gay
/furberia/, and yet that was hardly the word--perhaps rather one
should say its sunny naughtiness, its reckless devotion to life purged
of thought. And Vere--what did she embody? Not Sicily, though she was
in some ways so Sicilian. Not England; certainly not that!

Suddenly Artois was conscious that he knew Doro much better than he
knew Vere. He remembered the statement of an Austrian psychologist,
that men are far more mysterious than women, and shook his head over
it now. He felt strongly the mystery that lay hidden deep down in the
innocence of Vere, in the innocence of every girl-child of Vere's age
who had brains, temperament and perfect purity. What a marvellous