And her vanity was gratified as it had never been gratified before by all the compliments she had received, by all the longings she had aroused in men. Still holding her shoulders he said: “Do something for me to-night.” “What is it? What do you want?” “Oh, only a very simple thing.” She felt disappointed, but she said nothing. “Let us dine together to-night! Afterwards I will take you to your hotel and leave you to think.” He smiled down at her. “I am no longer afraid to let you think. Will you come?” “Yes,” she said. “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 passed them. But Craven had gone back to Adela Sellingworth. Arabian, perhaps, had been the cause of that return. “Why do you look like that? What are you thinking of?” “Naples,” she said. “I will sing you the street song. And then, presently, we will go. I know we must not be too late, or your dear Mademoiselle Cronin will be frightened about you.” He left her, and went once more to the piano. CHAPTER IV