Part 92 (2/2)
”Where was it you were walking to that night when I was so rude as to follow after you?”
”To a restaurant in Soho.”
”Yes?”
”To the _Bella Napoli_.”
”_Napoli_!”
He half shut his eyes.
”I love Naples. Is it Italian?”
”Yes.”
”Really Italian?”
”Yes.”
”Let us go there. And before we go I will sing you a street song of Naples.”
”You--you are not a Neapolitan?” she asked.
”No. I come from South America. But I know Naples very, very well.
Listen!”
And almost laughing, and looking suddenly buffo, he spoke a few sentences in the Neapolitan patois.
”Ah, they are rascals there! But one forgives them because they are happy in their naughtiness, or at any rate they seem happy. And there is nothing like happiness for getting forgiveness. We will be happy to-night, and we shall get forgiven. We will go to the _Bella Napoli_.”
She did not say ”yes” or ”no.” She was thinking at that moment of Craven and Adela Sellingworth. It was just possible that they might be there.
But if they were? What did it matter? Minnie Birchington had seen her with Arabian. Lady Archie Brooke had seen her. Craven had seen her.
And why should she be ashamed. Ought and ought not! Had she ever been governed in her life and her doing by fear of opinion?
”Do you say yes?” he asked. ”Or must you go back to dear Mademoiselle Cronin?”
She shook her head.
”Then what do you say?”
”Yes, I'll go there with you,” she answered.
But there was a sound of defiance in her voice, and at that moment she had a feeling that she was going to do something more decisively unconventional, even more dangerous, than she had ever yet done.
If _they_ were there! She remembered Craven's look at Arabian. She remembered, too, the change in Arabian's face as Craven had pa.s.sed them.
But Craven had gone back to Adela Sellingworth. Arabian, perhaps, had been the cause of that return.
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