continue to hear?"

"From Mrs. Stringham? Certainly. By which I mean Aunt Maud does."

"Then you've recent news?"

Her face showed a wonder. "Up to within a day or two I believe. But
haven't _you?_"

"No--I've heard nothing." And it was now that he felt how much he had
to tell her. "I don't get letters. But I've been sure Mrs. Lowder
does." With which he added: "Then of course you know." He waited as if
she would show what she knew; but she only showed in silence the dawn
of a surprise that she couldn't control. There was nothing but for him
to ask what he wanted. "Is Miss Theale alive?"

Kate's look at this was large. "Don't you _know?_"

"How should I, my dear--in the absence of everything?" And he himself
stared as for light. "She's dead?" Then as with her eyes on him she
slowly shook her head he uttered a strange "Not yet?"

It came out in Kate's face that there were several questions on her
lips, but the one she presently put was: "Is it very terrible?"

"The manner of her so consciously and helplessly dying?" He had to
think a moment. "Well, yes--since you ask me: very terrible to _me_--so
far as, before I came away, I had any sight of it. But I don't think,"
he went on, "that--though I'll try--I _can_ quite tell you what it was,
what it is, for me. That's why I probably just sounded to you," he
explained, "as if I hoped it might be over."

She gave him her quietest attention, but he by this time saw that, so
far as telling her all was concerned, she would be divided between the
wish and the reluctance to hear it; between the curiosity that, not
unnaturally, would consume her and the opposing scruple of a respect
for misfortune. The more she studied him too--and he had never so felt
her closely attached to his face--the more the choice of an attitude
would become impossible to her. There would simply be a feeling
uppermost, and the feeling wouldn't be eagerness. This perception grew
in him fast, and he even, with his imagination, had for a moment the
quick forecast of her possibly breaking out at him, should he go too
far, with a wonderful: "What horrors are you telling me?" It would have
the sound--wouldn't it be open to him fairly to bring that out
himself?--of a repudiation, for pity and almost for shame, of
everything that in Venice had passed between them. Not that she would
confess to any return upon herself; not that she would let compunction
or horror give her away; but it was in the air for him-