Through the hours of that railway journey Clodagh sat almost silent. To her eager mind, already springing forward towards the enchanted city, there was no need for speech; and the quiet, prim husband seated opposite to her, made no call upon her imagination. He was essential to the journey—as the padded cushion behind her head, or the English books and magazines by her side were essential to it—and for this reason he occupied that most fatal of all positions, the position of an accepted, familiar accessory. The early days of their marriage, when in her eyes, he had taken in a new and dreaded aspect, were entirely past. With his super-sensitiveness and constitutional self-distrust, he had withdrawn somewhat hastily from the position of lover, to shelter behind the cloak of his former guardianship. And Clodagh had hailed the change of attitude with obvious relief.
Now, as she sat eagerly alert to gain her first glimpse of Venice, she had almost forgotten that those early days had ever existed. For the moment Milbanke was a cipher; and she an ardent appreciative individual undergoing a new sensation.
Such was her precise mental position when at last the scene for which she waited broke upon her view. Rising straight out of the water, Venice seemed to her ardent eyes even more the product of a visionary world than her dreams had made it. The hour was seven; and from the many spires and domes of the city warm gleams of bronze or gold shot forth at the touch of the setting sun. But the prevailing note of colour that gleamed through the mauve twilight was white—the wonderful, semi-transparent white of ancient marble back-grounded by sea and sky.
The effect made upon Clodagh's mind by this white city wrapped in its evening veil was instantaneous and deep. With the exception of Florence, her knowledge of the beauties of Italy was very limited; and her first glimpse of Florence had been gained under such unpropitious circumstances that its sheltered loveliness had never appealed to her as it might otherwise have done. Now, however, her condition of mind was tranquil, if not happy; and as the train sped forward, she gazed spell-bound at this beauty at once so tangible and so unreal.
To every traveller it must come with the sense of desecration, that this most magical of cities is approached by nothing less prosaic than an ordinary railway terminus. And Clodagh gave a little involuntary gasp of disappointment as the train swerved suddenly, exchanging the glamour of the outer world for a noisy station that might have belonged to any town; and as she rose from her seat, arranged her hat, and collected her books, she wondered for one moment whether the vision just hidden from her view was in reality the handiwork of man and not some mirage conjured up by her own imagination. So strong was the feeling, that she remained silent as she descended from the train, and waited while Milbanke saw to the collecting of the luggage; then, still without speaking, she followed him down the flight of steps that lead to the water. But there, as the station vanished from consideration, and the picturesque crowd of waiting gondolas met her gaze, her pleasure and excitement woke again; and with a quick gesture, she laid her hand on her husband's arm.
"Oh, isn't it wonderful?" she said in a hushed voice.
Milbanke turned to her uncertainly.
"Yes, my dear," he said absently—"yes. But——" He sniffed critically—"but do you not detect a distinctly unhealthy odour?"
Clodagh's hand dropped suddenly and expressively to her side, and she wheeled round with unnecessary haste towards the gondola into which the luggage was being piled.
But even this jarring incident could not mar the first journey in the stately black boat. Every portion of the way was instinct with its own especial charm. From the wide dignity of the Grand Canal with its ancient palaces, its mysterious stream of silent traffic, its occasional note of modern life, to the fascinating glimpses of narrower waterways where the women of the people, with uncovered heads, leaned out of their windows to exchange the day's gossip with a neighbour across the water—all was a delight, something engrossing and unique. Clodagh had no desire to speak as they glided forward; and when the hotel steps were reached, she suffered herself to be assisted from the gondola scarcely certain whether she was dreaming or awake.
Outside the hotel, half a dozen visitors were seated upon the small stone terrace, indolently watching the arrival of new guests; but so absorbed was Clodagh in the scene before her, that she scarcely observed their presence. And when Milbanke, murmuring an excuse, departed to see after their rooms, she turned again towards the canal that she had just left; and, leaning over the balustrade of the terrace, paused for a moment to study the picture afresh.
But as she stood there, unconscious of everything but the wonderful, noiseless pageant passing ceaselessly through the purple twilight, more than one glance strayed in her own direction. And two at least among the hotel visitors changed their lounging attitudes for the purpose of observing her more closely.
The two—both men—were simultaneously and noticeably attracted. The elder, who, by his extremely fastidious and studied appearance, might almost have belonged to another and earlier era than our own, was a man of nearly seventy; the younger was his junior by forty-five years. But—so levelling a thing is spontaneous admiration—the expression upon the two faces, as they leant suddenly forward, was strikingly similar.
The old man held a gold-rimmed eyeglass close to his eye; the younger meditatively removed his cigarette from his mouth. But at this critical moment of their close observation, Milbanke reappeared, and, moving stiffly across the terrace, touched Clodagh's arm.
"My dear," he said, "our rooms are ready. If you will go upstairs, I will find Barnard. I will not dress for dinner to-night. It is after seven o'clock."
Clodagh turned, her face glowing with the enthusiasm that filled her mind.
"All right!" she said. "But I think I'll just change into something cool. It won't take ten minutes."
Without waiting for his assent, she turned quickly and Walked across the terrace to the vestibule of the hotel.
As she passed the two men in the lounge chairs, the elder again lifted his eyeglass; while the younger, leaning forward, stared at her with that superb lack of embarrassment or reserve that the young Englishman can at times assume.
"By Jove!" he said very softly, as the two new arrivals disappeared into the hotel.
His companion turned to him with a thin laugh that belied his carefully preserved appearance.
"Attractive—eh?" he said.
The other replaced his cigarette in his mouth.
"What nationality is she?" he asked after a moment's pause. "I'd feel inclined to say Italian myself, but the old father's so uncompromisingly Saxon."
Again the older man laughed—a laugh that expressed unfathomable worldly wisdom.
"Father!" he said satirically. "Fathers don't shuffle round their womenfolk like that. They are husband and wife."
"Husband and wife!" The other smiled. But the older man pursed up his lips.
"You'll find I'm right," he said. "She walked three steps ahead of him, to avoid seeing him—and she did it unconsciously. Proof conclusive!"
The young man laughed.
"Doesn't carry conviction, uncle!" he said. "I'll bet you a fiver you're wrong. Will you take me on?"
His companion smiled languidly.
"As you like," he responded.
The young man nodded; then he looked down lazily at his flannel suit.
"I suppose it's time to change," he said reluctantly. "Awful bore being conventional abroad."
With another careless nod, he lounged off in the direction of the hall.
Exactly a quarter of an hour later, Clodagh emerged from her bedroom, looking fresh and cool in a dress of rose-coloured gauze that, cut high in the neck and possessing sleeves that reached the wrist, was yet light and diaphanous in effect. She opened her door and, mindful of the lateness of the hour, moved quickly out into the corridor. But scarcely had she taken a step in the direction of the stairs, than a door exactly opposite to her own was opened with equal haste; and the young Englishman of the terrace appeared before her. Seeing her, he halted involuntarily, and for a second their eyes met.
The glance was momentary; there was not a word spoken; but irresistibly the colour rushed into Clodagh's face. It took her but an instant to regain her composure, and to pass down the empty corridor with a touch of hauteur; but long after she had gained the stairs, her heart was beating with a new excitement. The glance that the stranger had given her had been almost ill-bred in its absolute directness; but ill or well bred, there had been no mistaking the unqualified admiration it conveyed. The personality of the man had escaped her attention; the fact that his hair was dark, his face attractive, and his figure tall, slight, and graceful had made no impression upon her. All she was conscious of—all that set her pulses throbbing, was the suddenly awakened knowledge that, within herself, she possessed some subtle, and previously unrealised power that could compel a man's regard.
She descended the stairs with a new sensation of elasticity and elation; and at its foot found Milbanke awaiting her in conversation with a suave, elderly man.
As she came within speaking distance, the two turned towards her.
"My dear!" Milbanke said quickly, "allow me to introduce Mr. David Barnard! David, this is my—my wife!"
Clodagh looked up curiously, and met the florid face, bland smile, and observant eyes of Barnard—a man who for nearly a quarter of a century had managed to prosper in his profession, and at the same time to retain a prominent place in fashionable society. As their glances met, she held out her hand.
"How d'you do!" she said. "I believe I've been wanting to know you ever since I heard you laugh one day two years ago."
She spoke warmly—impulsively—almost as Denis Asshlin might have spoken. Involuntarily Milbanke glanced at her with a species of surprise. In that moment she was neither the frank, fearless child he had first known, nor the self-contained, unfathomable girl who had since become his daily companion. In the crowded, cosmopolitan atmosphere of the hotel, she seemed suddenly to display a new individuality.
Barnard took her outstretched hand, and bowed over it impressively.
"It is very charming of you to say that, Mrs. Milbanke," he murmured. "But I'm afraid James has told me that you come from Ireland!"
Clodagh laughed.
"He'll also tell you that I lived quite forty miles from the Blarney stone!"
She looked up, her face brimming with animation. Then suddenly and involuntarily she coloured. The young Englishman of the terrace was coming slowly down the stairs.
He descended nonchalantly, and as he reached the hall, he deliberately paused in front of the little group.
"Hallo, Barney!" he said easily. "Been playing much bridge this afternoon?"
Barnard looked round with his tactfully affable smile.
"Haven't had one rubber," he said.
"No?"
"No."
There was a pause—a seemingly unnecessary and pointless pause—in which Barnard looked suavely at the newcomer; the newcomer looked at Clodagh; and Clodagh looked fixedly out across the hall. Then at last the older man seemed to realise that something was expected of him. With a gay gesture, he metaphorically swept the silence aside.
"Mrs. Milbanke," he said affably, "will you permit me to present my friend Mr. Valentine Serracauld?"
CHAPTER III
Clodagh looked up, colouring afresh; and the young man bowed quickly and eagerly. He belonged to a type new to her, but familiar to every social Londoner: the type of young Englishman who, gifted with unusual height and fine possibilities of muscular development, saunters through life—physically and morally—exerting his energy and his strength in one direction only—the eternal, aimless, enervating search after personal pleasure.
To be explicit, the Honourable Valentine Serracauld was suffering from that most modern of complaints—the lack of surmountable obstacles. The nephew of one of the richest peers in England, he had started life heavily handicapped. A sufficiency of money had rendered work unnecessary; good looks and a naturally ingratiating manner had precluded the need for mental equipment; while his social position had unfairly protected him from any share in the rough and tumble existence that moulds and hardens a man's character. At fifteen, he had been an average healthy public schoolboy; at five-and-twenty, he was a fashionable young aristocrat, whose only business in life was the aiding and abetting of his uncle in the absorbing pursuit of killing time.
He bowed now to Clodagh with the extreme impressiveness that men of his type bestow upon a new and promising introduction.
"Charmed to meet you, Mrs. Milbanke!" he said. "Are you a resident here—or a bird of passage like ourselves?" He indicated Barnard.
Clodagh met his intent gaze with a renewed thrill of speculative pleasure.
"My husband and I live at Florence," she explained. "We are only here on business—which sounds a desecration."
Serracauld continued to watch her.
"Not if you have any share in it," he said in a low voice.
She laughed and blushed.
"I'm afraid you speak from inexperience," she said. "To the people who know me, I am a very prosaic person."
She looked involuntarily at Milbanke.
But Milbanke's eyes were on the groups of hotel guests, already moving towards the dining-room.
"Don't you think we might—might make a move——?" he hazarded vaguely.
There was a very slight pause; then Serracauld responded to the suggestion.
"You are quite right!" he said easily. "I expect my uncle is looking for me; he usually gets fidgety about feeding time. Will you excuse me, Mrs. Milbanke? Perhaps later on I shall have the chance of correcting that inexperience you accuse me of."
He laughed pleasantly; and with a courteous gesture, disappeared into the crowd that was fast filing out of the hall.
As he disappeared, Clodagh turned towards the dining-room, leaving Milbanke and Barnard to follow; but she had scarcely crossed the hall, when the latter overtook her.
"Well, Mrs. Milbanke," he said genially, "what do you think of our young friend? I believe he usually finds favour in ladies' eyes."
She glanced up.
"I think him very charming," she said candidly. "Who is he? Do you know him well?"
Barnard smiled.
"I have known him since he was a boy at Eton. He is nephew of the famous Earl of Deerehurst who, according to rumour, spends three hundred a year on silk socks, and bathes every morning in scented milk."
Clodagh made an exclamation of disgust.
"What an abominable person!"
Again Barnard smiled.
"Well, I don't quite know," he said tolerantly. "Rumour is generally a yard or two in front of reality. Perhaps Deerehurst is rather a mummified oldroué; but then, you know, embalming is a clean process, Mrs. Milbanke, before, as well as after, death. I sometimes wonder whether Valentine won't put the family money to even less harmless use if he ever succeeds to the title. He is next in the succession, but for one feeble life."
Clodagh's eyes opened.
"Really!" she said. "I should never have connected him with so much responsibility."
Barnard looked down at her.
"Responsibility!" he said. "I don't think I should call it responsibility! But what has become of James?"
He paused, and glanced round the fast emptying hall.
As he did so, Milbanke hurried up, his manner newly interested, his thin face flushed.
"Who do you think I have just seen, Clodagh?" he asked excitedly. "Mr. Angelo Tombs—that interesting scientist who joined our party at Pisa last year!"
Clodagh looked round.
"What?" she said in surprise. "The big, untidy-looking man, who had written a book on something terribly unpronounceable?"
Milbanke nodded gravely.
"Yes," he said. "A most interesting and exhaustive work. I shall make a point of congratulating him upon it directly we have finished dinner."
"And what about me?" Barnard eyed him quizzically.
"You! Oh, you must wait, David! You will understand that a man like Mr. Tombs is not to be met with every day."
They were entering the dining-room as Milbanke spoke; and involuntarily Barnard glanced from the precise, formal figure of his friend, to the youthful, attractive form of his friend's wife.
"And you, Mrs. Milbanke?" he asked in a undertone. "Are you an equally great enthusiast? Does the antique appeal very forcibly to you?"
As he put the question, he was conscious of its irony; but an irrepressible curiosity forced him to utter it. He was still labouring under an intense surprise at Milbanke's choice of a wife; and the desire to probe the nature of the relationship was strong within him.
"Are you like the man in the Eastern story?" he added. "Would you barter new lamps for old?"
Clodagh was walking in front of him as he put the question, and Milbanke was left momentarily behind. For a second she made no reply; then suddenly she turned and cast a bright glance over her shoulder.
"If you had asked me that question this morning, Mr. Barnard," she said, "I don't believe I could have answered it. But now I can. I would not part with one new, bright lamp for a hundred old ones—no matter how rare. Am I a great vandal?"
Her eyes were shining with the excitement of the moment, and her face looked beautifully and eagerly alive.
"Am I a great vandal?" she repeated softly.
There was an instant's pause; then Barnard stepped closer to her side.
"No, Mrs. Milbanke," he said. "But you are a very unmistakable child of Eve."
The dinner that night was a feast to Clodagh. She sat between Milbanke and Barnard; and though the former was silently engrossed in the thought of his coming interview; and, for the time being, the latter confined his talk to impersonal subjects, she felt as she had never felt before in the span of her twenty-two years. For the first time she was conscious of being a woman—privileged to receive the homage and the consideration of men. It was a wonderful, a thrilling discovery; all the more thrilling and all the more wonderful because shrouded as yet in a veil of mystery.
Dinner was half way through before Barnard returned to his task of studying her individually; then he turned to her with his most suavely confidential manner.
"Have you been very gay in Florence this season?" he asked.
She looked up quickly.
"Gay?" she repeated. "Oh no! I don't think we are ever exactly gay."
He raised his eyebrows.
"Indeed!" he said. "You surprise me. There used to be quite an amusing English crowd at Florence."
Clodagh coloured, feeling vaguely conscious of some want in her social equipment.
"Oh, I didn't mean the other English residents," she corrected hastily. "I meant ourselves—James and I."
Barnard's face became profoundly interested.
"But don't you care for society?" he said, his eyes travelling expressively over her pretty dress.
Again she coloured.
"It isn't that," she said in a low, quick voice. "James doesn't care about parties—or people——"
Barnard's lips parted to express surprise or sympathy; but she finished her sentence hastily.
"—And of course I like what he likes."
Barnard bent his head.
"Of course," he said enigmatically, and dropped back into silence.
For a time he remained apparently absorbed in his dinner. Then, as Clodagh began to wonder uncomfortably whether she had unwittingly offended him, he turned to her again.
"Mrs. Milbanke," he said softly, "would you think me very presumptuous if I were to make a little proposal?"
Clodagh brightened.
"Of course not! Say anything you like."
"You will be here for a week?"
"I—I hope so." She glanced covertly at Milbanke.
"Oh yes, you will! I shall arrange it."
She looked at him quickly.
"You?" she said. "How?"
"Never mind how!" He smiled reassuringly. "You will be here for a week; and my proposal is that, while Milbanke is settling his business, I should be allowed to introduce you to some English friends of mine who are in Venice just now. It may be presumptuous, but I seem to feel"—he hesitated for a moment—"I seem to feel that you want to make some new friends—that you want to have a good time. Forgive my being so very blunt!"
Clodagh sat silent. She felt no resentment at his words, but they vaguely embarrassed her. The new possibility thrilled her; yet insensibly she hesitated before it.
"But ought I to want new friends?" she asked at last in a very low and undecided voice.
Barnard laid down the glass that he was lifting to his lips, and looked at her quickly. Her freshness charmed, while hernaïvetépuzzled him.
"Well, Mrs. Milbanke," he said suddenly, "suppose we find that out?"
And, leaning forward, he addressed Milbanke.
"James," he said, "I have just been making a little suggestion. While you and I are putting our ancient heads together, don't you think Mrs. Milbanke ought to study her Venice—local colour—atmosphere—all that sort of thing?"
Milbanke turned in his seat.
"Eh, David?" he exclaimed. "What's that you say?"
"I was suggesting that Mrs. Milbanke should see a little of Venice now that she is here."
He indicated the long windows of the dining-room through which the sound of voices and music was already being borne on the purple twilight.
Milbanke's face became slightly disturbed.
"Of course!—of course!" he said vaguely. "But—but neither of us care much for conventional sight-seeing; and then, you know, my time here is limited."
"Exactly!—exactly what I was saying. Your time is valuable. All the more danger of Mrs. Milbanke's hanging heavy on her hands. Now, there are some charming people staying here at present, who would only be too delighted to make her visit pleasant."
Milbanke's expression cleared.
"Oh, well——" he began in a relieved voice.
"Exactly! Lady Frances Hope is here. You remember Lady Frances who married my cousin Sammy Hope—the red-headed little beggar who went into the Navy? She would be intensely interested in Mrs. Milbanke. I wish you would let me make them known to each other."
He smiled suavely, thoroughly in his element at the prospect of working a little social scheme.
Milbanke looked at Clodagh.
"What do you think, my dear?" he asked vaguely.
Clodagh looked down at her plate.
"I don't quite know," she murmured.
Barnard leant close to her in a confiding manner.
"Quite right, Mrs. Milbanke!" he said. "Never trouble to analyse your feelings. Just give them a free rein. Lady Frances Hope is a most charming woman. Always bright, always good-natured, always in the swim—if you understand that very expressive phrase."
Clodagh smiled as she helped herself to an ice. During their conversation, the dinner had drawn to its close; and here and there people were already rising from table and moving towards the hall or the long windows that opened on to the canal. Unconsciously her eyes turned in the direction of these open windows, through which a flood of light streamed out upon the water, bringing into prominence the dark gondolas that flitted perpetually to and fro like great black bats.
Seeing her glance, Barnard turned to her again.
"Shall we charter a gondola?" he asked. "It's the thing to do here?"
Her eyes sparkled.
"Oh, how lovely!" she said; then involuntarily her face fell and she looked at her husband.
"But perhaps——" she began deprecatingly.
As the word escaped her, Milbanke—who had been oblivious of the conversation—pushed back his chair and rose from table with a faint exclamation of excitement.
"Ah, there he is!" he said, his eyes fixed upon a distant corner of the room. "There he is! I must not run the risk of missing him!"
Clodagh turned to him eagerly.
"James," she began, "Mr. Barnard says——"
But Milbanke's mind was elsewhere.
"My dear," he said hurriedly, "you must really excuse me. A man like Mr. Angelo Tombs is a personage of importance."
"Yes; but, James——"
She paused, disconcerted. Milbanke had left the table.
For quite a minute she sat silent, her cheeks burning with a sudden sense of mortification and neglect. To a reasoning and experienced mind, the incident would have carried no weight; at most it would have offered grounds for a passing amusement. But with Clodagh the case was different. Circumstances had never demanded the cultivation of her reason, and experience was an asset she was not possessed of. To her sensitive, youthful susceptibilities, the incident could only wear one complexion. Her husband had obviously and wittingly humiliated her in presence of his friend.
She sat with tightened lips, staring unseeingly at the table.
Then suddenly and softly some one crossed the room behind her, and paused beside her chair. Turning with a little start, she saw the pale, clean-cut features and searching dark eyes of Valentine Serracauld.
"Mrs. Milbanke," he said at once in his easy, ingratiating voice. "If you are not doing anything else this evening, may I place my uncle's gondola at your disposal? Both he and I would be considerably honoured if you and your husband——"
Clodagh looked up into his face with a quick glance of pleasure and relief.
"Oh, thank you!" she said. "Thank you so very much! I should love to come, only my husband is—is busy to-night."
She paused; and in the pause Barnard leaned close to her again, with his most friendly and reassuring manner.
"After all, Mrs. Milbanke," he said, "do you think that need preclude you from the enjoyment? James is perfectly happy; Lord Deerehurst's gondola is quite the most comfortable in Venice; and I'm sureI'mstaid enough to play propriety! Suppose we make a party of four?"
Serracauld laughed delightedly.
"How splendid!" he said. "Mrs. Milbanke, may I find my uncle and bring him to be introduced?"
He bent forward quickly, leaning across Milbanke's empty chair.
For one second Clodagh sat irresolute; then she glanced swiftly from one interested, admiring face to the other, and again the blood rushed into her face in a wave of self-conscious pleasure.
"Yes," she said softly—"yes. Bring your uncle to be introduced."
CHAPTER IV
Serracauld smiled his acknowledgment of the granted permission, and departed in search of his uncle; while Barnard looked at Clodagh with amused interest.
"If you can waive your prejudices against the milk baths, Mrs. Milbanke," he said, "you'll find old Deerehurst quite a delightful person. But, of course, when one is very young, prejudices are adhesive things."
He finished his coffee meditatively, stealing a glance at her from the corner of his eye.
She remained silent for a moment, tentatively fingering her cup.
"Do I seem so very young?" she asked at last, without raising her eyes.
At the words, he turned and looked at her fully.
"Do you know, Mrs. Milbanke," he said seriously, "I am literally devoured by a desire to ask you your age? When I saw you come downstairs to-night, I felt—pardon the rudeness!—like laughing in James's face when he introduced you as his wife. You scarcely looked eighteen. But a little while ago, when you spoke of your life at Florence, I suddenly felt out in my calculations. Your face, of course, seemed just as fascinatingly young; but from your expression I could have believed you to be twenty-four. And now again—Pleasedobe lenient to my impertinence!—now again, as you spoke to Serracauld, you looked like a child turning the first page in the book of life. Are you an enigma?"
During the first portion of his speech, Clodagh had looked grave; but at his last words she laughed with a touch of constraint.
"No," she answered. "I am nothing half so interesting—and it's four years since I was eighteen. But hadn't I better get my cloak before Mr. Serracauld comes back?"
With another slightly embarrassed laugh, she rose; and without waiting for Barnard's escort, walked out of the room.
Ten minutes later, she descended the stairs, wrapped in a light evening cloak. Her cheeks were still flushed with excitement, and her hazel eyes were dark with anticipation. Yesterday—only yesterday—she had been a mere item in the secluded, unimportant life of the villa at Florence; now, to-night, three men—each one of whom must, in his time, have known superlatively interesting and beautiful women—awaited her pleasure!
As she stepped across the hall, Serracauld darted forward to meet her.
"This is very gracious of you!" he murmured. "I hear it is your first evening in Venice."
She glanced up at him, as they moved slowly forward across the hall.
"My very first evening," she said softly. "And I so want to enjoy it."
He paused deliberately, and looked at her.
"May I take that as permission to make it enjoyable—if I can?"
Her lashes drooped in instinctive, native coquetry.
"Aren't you going to introduce your uncle to me?" she said in a lowered voice.
He looked at her, mystified and attracted.
"If I knew you better, Mrs. Milbanke——" he began.
But without replying, Clodagh moved away from him across the hall and out on to the terrace. There, transfixed by a new impression, she paused involuntarily.
Venice is beautiful in the morning and exquisite in the twilight, but it is at night that the mystery of Venice—that most subtle of its many charms—enwraps and envelops it like a magic web. There is nothing in Europe to rival the literal, tangible romance of Venice at night: the faint, idle, infinitely suggestive lap of water against a thousand unseen steps; the secret darkness, revealed rather than dispersed by the furtive, uneven lights shed forth from windows or open doors; the throb of music that seems woven into the picture—an inseparable, integral part of the enchanted life. All is a wonder and a joy.
To Clodagh, with her inherent love of things mystic and beautiful, the scene was curiously impressive. In an ecstasy of appreciation, she stood drinking it in; then, suddenly touched with the warm desire of sharing her sensations, she turned to her companion.
"Isn't it—wonderful?" she said below her breath.
Serracauld looked at her for a moment in puzzled doubt; then he smiled indulgently.
"Yes!" he said vaguely. "Yes! It is rather great—the water and the gondolas and—and all that sort of thing——"
Her large, clear eyes rested on his face, then slowly returned to their scrutiny of the canal. A momentary sense of disappointment had assailed her—she was conscious of a momentary jar. But as she stood, silent and uncertain, a burst of low, throbbing music broke across the darkness, and at the same moment she became conscious of a large gondola gliding up to the hotel steps.
With the excitement of anticipation, the cloud passed from her face.
"Come!" she cried—"come! I see Mr. Barnard."
It was at the head of the flight of stone steps leading to the water, that Lord Deerehurst was introduced to her; and in the semi-darkness, it struck her that he made a distinctly interesting figure, with his black hair worn a shade lower on the forehead than modern fashion permits; his pale, aristocratic, unemotional face; his cold, penetrating eyes; and the somewhat unusual evening clothes that fitted his tall figure closely and, by a clever touch of the tailor's art, conveyed the suggestion of a period more picturesque than our own. She studied him with deep attention; and bent her head in gratified acknowledgment of the profound bow with which he marked the introduction. A moment later, he offered her his hand, and himself assisted her to the waiting gondola.
With a pleasant, excited sense of dignity and importance, she passed down the steps and entered the boat, noting, as she took her seat, its costly and elaborate fittings and the sombre livery of the two gondoliers; then, as she leant back against the cushions, her eyes passed back interestedly to the three men to whom she owed the night's adventure.
Lord Deerehurst came first, moving with a certain stiff dignity, and appropriated the seat by her side; Barnard and Serracauld followed, placing themselves on the two smaller seats that flank the stern; and a moment later, she saw the gondoliers swing lithely round into their allotted positions, and felt the gondola shoot out swiftly and silently into the dark waters.
Following the custom of the place, they headed for the point where the idle and the pleasure-seeking of Venice gather nightly to listen to the music, and lazily watch the swaying paper lanterns of the musician's gondolas.
Clodagh sat silent as they skimmed onward. She was bending slightly forward, her whole attitude an unconscious typifying of expectancy; her hands were lightly clasped in her lap, and again the hazel of her eyes was darkened by their dilated pupils.
As the gondola slackened speed and the music became nearer, more distinct, Lord Deerehurst, who had been covertly studying her, leant suddenly close to her.
"You are a great appreciator of the beautiful, Mrs. Milbanke!" he said in his thin, high-bred voice.
Clodagh started; and, glancing from one to the other of the three men, laughed shyly.
"Why do you say that?" she asked.
"Because I have presumed to watch your face."
She blushed; and Barnard, feeling rather than seeing her embarrassment, made haste to reassure her.
"Mrs. Milbanke is an adept in the appreciation of beauty," he said with a laugh. "She was brought up on the study of it."
Again Clodagh coloured, and again she gave a shy laugh.
"If you say that, Mr. Barnard," she said, "I shall accuse you of being a fellow-countryman. I am Irish, you know." She turned and looked up at Deerehurst.
The old peer again bent forward interestedly.
"Indeed!" he exclaimed. "Then we have a bond of sympathy. Some of my best friends come from Ireland."
His voice was high and possessed no fulness, but he had the same courteously ingratiating manner that belonged to his nephew; while a larger acquaintance with the world had taught him an adaptability to circumstances—and persons—that Serracauld had not troubled to acquire. As he spoke now, he brought a tone of deference and friendliness into his words that touched Clodagh to a feeling of companionship.
"Then you know Ireland?" she said quickly.
"Very well indeed."
Her expression softened.
"When were you there last?" she asked in a low voice.
"Last autumn. I was staying at Arranmore with——"
"—With Lord Muskeere. I know—I know. Why, you were in our county. My father often and often stayed at Arranmore before——" She checked herself hastily. "Oh, long ago, before—before I was born," she added a little awkwardly. "It was from a stream that runs near there that he took my name—Clodagh."
"Indeed! What a charming idea!"
Deerehurst raised his gold-rimmed eyeglass, and peered at her through the dusk.
At the same moment, Serracauld leaned forward in his seat.
"Clodagh!" he repeated—"Clodagh! What a pretty name!"
Once more, and without apparent reason, Clodagh felt her heart beat unevenly. With a short laugh, she turned to Barnard.
"And you, Mr. Barnard," she said hastily, "do you like the name?"
Barnard made a suave gesture.
"I say that it fits its owner."
Once more she laughed with a tinge of nervous excitement.
"A very guarded statement!" she said brightly. "I think we had better talk about something else. Who are the people I am to meet here? Mr. Barnard kindly wants to provide me with new friends."
She turned again to Deerehurst.
"Indeed!" Once more he lifted the gold-rimmed glass, this time to study Barnard.
"Yes," broke in Barnard genially. "Mrs. Milbanke's husband and I have met here to talk shop; and I have a shrewd presentiment that, unless we provide her with a diverting channel or two, Mrs. Milbanke may find Venice a bore."
"I could never do that."
Clodagh turned an animated face towards the dark flotilla, on the outskirts of which their own gondola was hovering.
"But, my dear lady, even Venice can become uninteresting and dry—paradoxical as it may sound," Barnard returned airily. "My proposal," he explained, "is that I should make Frances Hope and Mrs. Milbanke known to each other. Don't you think the idea brilliant?"
"Quite!—quite!" Serracauld looked up interestedly. "You are a man of ideas, Barny!"
Lord Deerehurst said nothing, but again his eyeglass gleamed in the uncertain light.
"What is Lady Frances Hope like?" Clodagh asked, suddenly withdrawing her gaze from the massed gondolas that swayed in the musicians' lantern light.
"Like?" Serracauld repeated vaguely. "How would you describe her, uncle? The sort of woman who does everything twice as well as anybody else—and at half the cost—eh?"
Lord Deerehurst gave one of his thin, metallic laughs.
"I always think," he said slowly, "that if Frances Hope had been the child of a milkman instead of a marquis, she would have made a singularly successful adventuress. No reflections cast upon the late Sammy, my dear Barnard!"
He waved his white hand, and the dim, uncertain light gleamed on a magnificent diamond ring.
Barnard laughed with a tolerant air.
"Rather an apt deduction!" he admitted. "I am inclined to agree with you. Frances is just one of those shrewd, plain-looking, attractive women who enjoy climbing steep ladders. It is rather a pity she was born on the top rung. But I believe we have frightened Mrs. Milbanke!"
He turned suddenly and caught Clodagh's expression, as she sat forward, listening intently.
At the mention of her name, she laughed quickly, and leant back against the cushions of her seat.
"What do you mean?" she asked with a touch of constraint. "Am I as childish as all that?"
They all looked at her; and Barnard gave an amused laugh.
"Come!" he cried banteringly. "There's no use telling me you weren't just a little shocked."
"Shocked?"
"Yes, shocked." He nodded his head once or twice in genial gaiety. "There's no denying that the word 'adventuress' has a daunting sound. There was a danger signal in the very thought of a lady who might—under any conditions—have been notorious. Come now, confess!"
Clodagh looked from his amused, quizzical eyes to Serracauld's satirical, laughing ones, and a shadow of uncertainty—of doubt—crossed her own bright face. There was an element in this social atmosphere that she did not quite understand.
"Indeed——" she began hotly.
But Serracauld, whose glance had never left her own, bent forward quickly, looking up into her face.
"I say, Mrs. Milbanke," he cried, "let's refute the insinuation of this old inquisitor! Let's waive ceremony, and storm Lady Frances Hope in her citadel! She is always at home at this hour of night."
Clodagh looked up.
"To-night?" she said. "Oh, but how could I? I don't know her!"
Serracauld laughed.
"Oh, as for that, we're abroad, not in England! The greatest stickler for etiquette allows that there's a difference in the two conditions."
"But I couldn't. How could I?" Her eyes sought Barnard's.
"Oh yes!" he cried. "I knew it!—I knew it! We have frightened you off!"
She flushed uncomfortably.
"It isn't that!" she cried in distress. "You know it isn't that!" Involuntarily she turned to Lord Deerehurst; but in the dim light she detected a smile on his pale, cold face.
With a sudden change of emotion, self-reliance came to her.
"Where does Lady Frances Hope live?" she asked in a careless voice.
Barnard was studying her intently.
"She has apartments in the Palazzo Ugochini," he said. "Quite close at hand."
For a moment Clodagh looked fixedly in front of her; then her lips closed suddenly, and she raised her head.
"Very well!" she said shortly. "Take me to the Palazzo Ugochini—just to prove that you were wrong."
CHAPTER V
The decision was no sooner made, than it was carried into execution. The order was given to the gondoliers, and instantly the long dark gondola swung round, disengaging itself from the tangle of surrounding craft, and headed for the quieter spaces of the middle stream.
The Palazzo Ugochini was on the Grand Canal; and as they glided westward, past the beautiful church of Santa Maria della Salute, Barnard leant forward and directed her attention to their destination.
"There is the Palace of the Ugochini," he said. "It contains some of the finest frescoes in Italy. It was bought up some years ago by an enterprising Frenchman who lets it out in sections. Just now Lady Frances Hope is the proud occupier of the first floor."
With a movement of interest, she followed his glance looking silently at the long line of irregular, imposing buildings that stretched away before her.
"What a beautiful old place!" she said. "Are those your friend's windows?"
She indicated the first floor of the palace, from the open windows of which a warm stream of light poured downwards upon the water.
"Yes. I expect they're playing bridge up there. Frances is an enthusiast. By the way, do you gamble, Mrs. Milbanke?"
Involuntarily Clodagh started and looked round; then, as she met Barnard's bland, amiable face, she blushed at her own emotions.
"Oh no!" she said in a low voice. "I—I never play cards."
Serracauld looked up quickly.
"What!" he exclaimed. "You don't play bridge?"
"I have never played any game of cards since I was a child."
The three men looked at her in unfeigned surprise.
"Not really, Mrs. Milbanke?"
Serracauld's eyes were wide with astonishment.
"Really !—quite really!"
"Why you are ethereal, Mrs. Milbanke," Barnard said laughingly, as the gondola glided up to the palace steps. "The passport to humanity nowadays is an inordinate love of risk."
Clodagh laughed nervously.
"Then I must be inhuman," she said.
The gondola stopped, and Lord Deerehurst rose. As he offered her his hand, he looked searchingly into her face.
"Only time can prove the truth of that statement, Mrs. Milbanke!" he said in his thin voice.
In the mystery of her surroundings, the words seemed to Clodagh to possess a curious, almost a prophetic ring; and their echo lingered in her ears as she stepped from the gondola and entered the palace. But she was young; and to the young, action must ever outweigh suggestion. She had scarcely mounted the old marble staircase before the excitement of her impending ordeal sent all other ideas spinning into oblivion. There was adventure and experience in every succeeding moment.
At the head of the stairs they were met by an English man-servant. He stepped forward gravely, as if accustomed to the arrival of late callers; and, relieving Clodagh of her cloak, ushered her down a long corridor and through an arched doorway hidden by a velvet curtain.
The salon into which they were shown was large and high ceiled. The walls displayed some allegorical studies in the fresco work of which Barnard had spoken; the floor was bare of carpet and highly polished, reflecting the elaborately designed but scanty furniture and the wonderful glass chandeliers that hung from the ceiling; and in the three long windows that opened on the canal, stood groups of statuary.
During the moment that followed their entrance, Clodagh almost believed that the room was unoccupied, so wide and formal did it look; but a second glance convinced her of her mistake. At its further end four persons were playing cards at a small table, partly sheltered from the rest of the room by a massive leather screen.
When their names were announced, no one at the table moved or even looked round; but immediately afterwards there was a stir amongst the players, and the light sound of cards thrown hastily down, followed by a quick laugh in a woman's voice.
"Game—and rubber! Well done, partner! How does the score stand, Tory?"
The owner of the laugh rose from her seat, and almost instantly turned to the door, revealing to Clodagh's curious eyes a strong, energetic face, redeemed from ugliness by a pair of intensely intelligent eyes and a mouth that displayed strong white teeth. It was the somewhat disconcerting face of a clever woman to whom life represents an undeniable—if an invigorating—struggle. Seeing the little group by the doorway, she hurried forward with an almost masculine assurance.
"You poor, dear people!" she exclaimed in her strong voice. "A thousand apologies! We were on the point of finishing a most exciting rubber——" Her voice broke off short, as her eyes rested on Clodagh.
"Who is this, Barny?" she asked interestedly.
Barnard stepped forward, laying his hand smilingly on Clodagh's arm.
"This, my dear Frances," he said, "is a new friend that I want you to make! The wife of an old friend of mine. You may have met her husband—Mr. Milbanke—one of the Somerset Milbankes. Poor Sammy knew him well."
Lady Frances Hope puckered her strong, assertive eyebrows.
"I believe I do remember meeting a Mr. Milbanke, but I scarcely think——" She looked scrutinisingly at Clodagh.
"Oh yes, it's the same!—it's the same!" Barnard's interruption was somewhat hasty. "Mr. Milbanke is a great archaeologist. He and Mrs. Milbanke are only in Venice for a week. I had intended bringing you to call formally at their hotel; but circumstances——"
Here Clodagh broke in.
"You must please, please forgive my doing such a very extraordinary thing as this," she said. "It was all Mr. Barnard's fault——"
But Lady Frances Hope cut the explanation short by holding out her hand.
"You are extremely welcome!" she said cordially. "And if the truth must be told, I owe you a debt of gratitude for saving me an afternoon call. It's a hundred times pleasanter to meet like this. Now, let me see! You play bridge, of course. We can make up another four."
She glanced over her guests with an organising eye.
Clodagh stepped forward deprecatingly and cast a beseeching look at Barnard. But in the slight pause that followed, it was Lord Deerehurst who came to her rescue.
"Mrs. Milbanke has just been confessing to us that she never plays cards," he said smoothly. "If you will go on with your game, Lady Frances, I shall do my best to amuse her."
He turned his unemotional glance from one to the other.
The surprise that his announcement had brought to their hostess's face, changed instantly to an expression of hospitality.
"No!—no, indeed!" she cried. "I would infinitely prefer to talk to Mrs. Milbanke. Come!" she added, smiling at Clodagh. "Come and let me introduce you to these bridge-playing people. Perhaps they will convert you."
She laughed, and followed by the four, moved across the salon.
At their approach, the three at the card-table—two women and a man—turned to look at them, and the latter, a square-built, thick-set youth, wearing a pince-nez and possessing a quick, inquisitive manner, rose to his feet.
"Mrs. Milbanke!" said Lady Frances, "this is Mr. Victor Luard! Miss Luard! Mrs. Bathurst!"
Luard bowed; and the two women looked at Clodagh, each acknowledging the introduction after her own fashion. Miss Luard gave a quick, friendly nod, Mrs. Bathurst a slow and graceful inclination of the head, accompanied by a faint, insincere smile.
"Are you a bridge player?" she asked, raising a pair of pretty, languid brown eyes to Clodagh's. "I wish so much you would take my place. I've been having the most appalling luck."
Her glance wandered on to Serracauld, Barnard, and Deerehurst.
"Ah, here is Lord Deerehurst!" she cried in a suddenly animated voice. "Lord Deerehurst, do come and tell me what you would have done with a hand like this!"
She picked up her scattered cards, and began to sort them; then, with a graceful movement, she drew her skirts aside, and indicated a vacant chair that stood beside her own.
Lord Deerehurst hesitated, lifted his eyeglass, and scrutinised her pretty pink and white face, then languidly dropped into the empty chair. At the same moment Clodagh, Serracauld, Luard, and his sister fell into conversation; and Lady Frances and Barnard moved away together towards one of the open windows.
For a quarter of an hour the formation of the party remained unchanged; then a slight incident caused a distraction in the assembly. Clodagh—who had shaken off her first shyness, and was beginning to enjoy the conversation of her new acquaintance—heard the curtain at the arched entrance drawn back; and, looking round, was surprised to see two servants enter, solemnly carrying a table and a painted board, which they proceeded to set up in the middle of the room.
Her wonder and curiosity were depicted on her face, for Luard looked at her quickly and interestedly.
"Don't you know what that is, Mrs. Milbanke?" he asked. "Hasn't Barny told you of Lady Frances' famous roulette? Lady Frances!" he called, "come and initiate Mrs. Milbanke!"
At the words, every one turned and looked at Clodagh. And Lord Deerehurst, with a murmured word to Mrs. Bathurst, rose and came round the card-table.
"Are you going to tempt the gods?" he asked in his peculiar voice.
Clodagh looked round, a little embarrassed by the general interest.
"Well, I—I suppose I should like to see roulette played," she admitted guardedly.
He bent his head, and looked at her with his cold, penetrating smile.
"Ah, I see!" he said softly. "Judicious reservations!"
But at that moment Lady Frances crossed the room, and pausing by the roulette-table, set the ball spinning.
"Come along, people!" she cried gaily. "Fortune smiles!"
They all laughed and strolled across the room.
"Come along!" Lady Frances urged again—"come, Rose!" She smiled at Mrs. Bathurst. "Unlucky at bridge, lucky at roulette! Come, Tory!—come, Val!"
She glanced from Luard to Serracauld.
There was another amused laugh, and all the party with the exception of Clodagh stepped forward and placed one or many coins upon the table.
Lady Frances' eyes were quick to detect the exception. With her fingers poised above the board, she waited smilingly.
"Won't you stake, Mrs. Milbanke?" she asked.
Clodagh blushed, and stepped back shyly. At the same instant, Serracauld moved forward to her side.
"Oh, Mrs. Milbanke, but you must!" he cried.
Again confusion covered Clodagh, as all eyes were turned upon her.
"No, please!" she said. "I—I think I'd rather not."
Barnard laughed suavely.
"Mrs. Milbanke is wise!" he said. "She wants to see which way the gods are pointing."
"Then Mrs. Milbanke is unwise! The gods are jealous beings; we must not treat them with suspicion. I'll stake for her!"
It was Lord Deerehurst who spoke. And regardless of Clodagh's quick, half-frightened expostulation, he stepped forward out of the little circle, and placed a gold coin on the number thirteen. A moment later Lady Frances gave a short amused laugh, and with a dexterous movement of the fingers set the ball whizzing.
To Clodagh it was a supreme—an extraordinary—moment. Until Lord Deerehurst had made the stake—until the first click of the spinning ball had struck upon her ear—she had been conscious of only one feeling: a prejudiced, innate dread of every game—whether of chance or skill—upon which money could be staked; but the simple placing of the coin, the simple turning of the pivot had marked for her a psychological moment. With a quick catching of the breath, she stepped involuntarily forward, aware of but one fact—the keen, exhilarating knowledge that the stopping of the ball must mean loss or gain—individual loss or gain.
During the dozen seconds that it spun round the circle, she stood silent; then a faint sound of uncontrollable excitement slipped from between her lips. Hers was the winning number!
As in a dream, she extended her hand, and took the little heap of money from the fingers of Luard, who had come to Lady Frances' assistance; then, on the instant that the coins touched her palm, her excitement evaporated; her sense of elation fell away, to be succeeded by the first instinctive shrinking that had swayed her imagination.
Acting purely upon impulse, she turned to Lord Deerehurst; and before he could remonstrate, pressed the money into his hand.
"Please take it!" she said urgently—"please take it! It isn't mine. It oughtn't to be mine. I—I don't wish to play."
CHAPTER VI
The little incident, trivial in itself, damped the general ardour for roulette. After a dozen turns of the wheel, Lady Frances declared herself satisfied.
"Mrs. Milbanke has regenerated us—for the moment!" she cried. "I can't play roulette to-night. But our turn will come; Mrs. Milbanke. We will be revenged on you!"
Her shrewd, smiling glance passed rapidly over Clodagh's face.
Again the whole company laughed.
"Mrs. Milbanke is a feminine Sir Galahad!" said Luard. "By the way, Lady Frances, when is our irreproachable knight to honour Venice with his presence?"
He turned and looked banteringly at his hostess.
Lady Frances smiled.
"Oh, any day now," she returned. "But aren't you rather incorrigible?"
"So Sir Galahad thinks!" he retorted, unabashed. "Is he an acquaintance of yours, Mrs. Milbanke?"
Clodagh smiled uncertainly; and Lady Frances laughed.
"How ridiculous of you to expect Mrs. Milbanke to read your riddles!" she said sharply. "The person this very disrespectful young man is speaking of, Mrs. Milbanke, is Sir Walter Gore——"
"The most admirable Sir Walter Gore!" interjected Luard.
Lady Frances' sallow face flushed very slightly.
"—Sir Walter Gore," she went on, ignoring the interruption, "who is only twenty-nine—has been ten times round the world—and is imbued with the deepest contempt for all modern social things."
She laughed again, as she finished; but a fleeting change of expression had passed over her face.
Clodagh looked up smilingly.
"And where is the likeness to me?" she asked.
"Oh, you are both above mere human temptations, Mrs. Milbanke!" Luard broke in irrepressibly.
Lord Deerehurst, who had been listening to the conversation, lifted his eyeglass.
"But then Sir Walter Gore has been ten times round the world," he remarked in his thin, dry voice. "And this is Mrs. Milbanke's first visit to Venice."
Again they all laughed, and Clodagh coloured.
"You think my stoicism would not wear well?" she asked.
Deerehurst looked at her searchingly.
"Stoicism may be born of many characteristics," he said. "I am not in a position to say from what yours springs. But"—he lowered his voice.—"I do not think you are a natural stoic."
She laughed and glanced uneasily round the little company, already beginning to break up into groups of two and three.
Observing the look, Lady Frances turned to her tactfully. "Come, Lord Deerehurst!" she cried. "We are getting too serious. If youmustphilosophise, take Mrs. Milbanke on to the balcony, where she will have something to distract her thoughts. For myself, I want to hear Valentine sing. Val!" she called. "Come to the piano and make some music! I'm surfeited with stringed instruments and Italian voices."
She moved across the salon; and Lord Deerehurst turned to Clodagh.
"May I follow our hostess's suggestion? May I talk philosophy on the balcony?"
She smiled. The slight strain, of which she had been conscious ever since the incident of the roulette, lifted suddenly, and her earlier sensation of elated excitement returned.
"Yes, if you like," she responded brightly. "The balcony sounds very tempting. And as for the philosophy, I can promise to listen—if I can't promise to understand."
She smiled afresh, and crossed the wide room, Deerehurst following closely.
As she passed the group of statuary and stepped through the open window, Serracauld struck a chord or two on the piano, and an instant later, his voice—a full strong voice, intensely passionate and youthful—drifted across the salon and out into the night.
At the first note Clodagh halted, surprised and enchanted by the sound; and sinking silently into one of the balcony chairs, rested one arm on the iron railing.
The music Serracauld sang was French, and possessed much of the distinction that marks that nation's art. The song was a hymn to life—and its indispensable coadjutors, youth and love; and it went with a peculiar lilt that stirred the blood and stimulated the fancy. He sang it as it should be sung—easily and arrogantly; for, as frequently happens with those who possess voices, he could express in music thoughts, ideas, and emotions that never crossed his own selfish, somewhat narrow soul.
Clodagh, staring down into the dark waters in an attitude of wrapt attention, drank in the song to its last note; and as the final vibration died away, she looked round at Deerehurst with an expression infinitely softened and enhanced.
"How beautiful!" she said. "Oh, how beautiful!"
Deerehurst, who had seated himself beside her, leant forward and rested his own arm upon the balcony railing.
"It is not the song that is beautiful, Mrs. Milbanke," he said, "but the thoughts it has wakened in you."
Clodagh looked at him in silent question. She was still under the spell of the music, and saw nothing to resent in his cold gaze.
"You were the instrument," he went on in the same lowered voice. "The notes were not played upon the piano, but upon your brain. Your brain is a network of sensitive strings, waiting to be played on by every factor in life—music, colour, sunshine, emotion——" His tone sank.
Clodagh glanced quickly at his tall, thin figure, seated so close to her own, and at the wax-like, inscrutable face showing through the dusk.
"You seem to know me better than I know myself," she said uncertainly.
He watched her intently for a moment; then he leant forward, his long, pale fingers toying with the ribbon of his eyeglass.
"I do know you better than you know yourself."
She gave a little embarrassed laugh.
"Then explain me to myself!"
Again he seemed to study her; then he leant back in his chair with a decisive movement.
"No!" he said—"no! Not now! In a year—or two—or even three, perhaps. But not now."
She laughed again; and unconsciously a note of relief underran her laugh—a relief that, by a natural sequence of emotion, brought a fresh reaction to the coquetry of an hour ago.
With a quick turn of the head, she looked up at him. "But how shall I find you in a year—or two—or three?"
She was distinctly conscious that the words held a challenge; but the thought was fraught with the new intoxication that the evening had created.
With a swift movement, he bent closer to her.
"The world is very small, Mrs. Milbanke—when one desires to make it so."
In the half light of the balcony, his pale eyes seemed to search hers.
Involuntarily she blushed, but her glance met his steadily enough.
"Not until one has been ten times round it!" she reminded him.
He laughed his thin, amused laugh; then suddenly he became grave again.
"Don't you feel," he said, "that when we desire a thing very greatly, our own will power may bend circumstances?"
Her eyes faltered, and her gaze moved to the gondolas flitting silently below them.
"I think I have given up desiring things greatly," she said in a low, uneven voice.
Deerehurst's eyelids narrowed.
"Would it be presumptuous to ask why?"
"No. Oh no!"
"But you will not throw light upon my darkness?"
She turned her head, and once more her gaze rested on his face.
"No," she said softly, "it isn't that. It is that I don't believe I could enlighten you—even if I would. I am a puzzle to myself."
"The deeper a riddle, the more tempting its solution."
Very quietly he drew still nearer, until his foot touched the hem of her skirt.
The action, more than the words, startled her. With a little laugh, she drew back into her seat.
"Perhaps it is no riddle after all!" she said quickly. "Perhaps it is the lack of human nature—the likeness to Mr. Luard's 'Sir Galahad.'"
She laughed again nervously. Then suddenly her own words suggested to her a new and less dangerous channel of talk.
"When is this wonderful person to be in Venice?" she asked. "I should like to see him."
But Lord Deerehurst had no intention of allowing another man's name to interfere with his pleasure.
"Mrs. Milbanke," he said earnestly, "may I ask you another question—-a serious one?"
"Not till you've answered mine."
"But this is personal—personal to you and me. The other is not."
He bent over her chair; and, seemingly by accident, his hand brushed her sleeve.
"Mrs. Milbanke——"
But even as his thin voice articulated her name, a shadow fell across the lighted window behind them; and Serracauld, characteristically easy and nonchalant in his movements, stepped on to the balcony.
Clodagh turned with a short, faint laugh. The beating of her heart was uneven, and her face felt hot.
"Mr. Serracauld," she said impulsively, "when is Sir Walter Gore coming to Venice? I have been asking Lord Deerehurst, but he cannot—or will not tell me."
Deerehurst, who at his nephew's approach had drawn quietly back into his seat, looked up with perfect composure.
"Yes, Valentine," he said smoothly, "I believe Gore has been making an impression by proxy."