do you? You must say"--she made her voice sepulchral--"'I
solemnly do.'"

She gave him her eyes again, held him with them.

He was rigid for a minute, gazing fixedly at her.

"I solemnly do," he said at last, relaxing. "What's the condition?"

"The condition is an easy one--only a little journey to make."

"A journey to make? Away from Craford?"

He stood off, suspicious, prepared to be defiant.

"Yes," said she, playing with the lace of one of her cushions.

"Not for worlds," said he. "Anything else. But I won't leave Craford."

"You have promised," said she.

"Ah, but I did n't dream there would be any question of my leaving
Craford. There's a woman at Craford I 'm in love with. I won't leave
Craford."

"You have solemnly promised," said she.

"Hang my promise," gaily he outfaced her.

"Promises are sacred." She looked serious.

"Not promises extorted in the dark," contended he.

"Give me back my rose," said she, putting forth her hand.

"No," said he, pressing the rose anew to his face.

"Yes," said she, her foolhardy hand awaiting it.

For, instead of giving her back her rose, he threw himself upon her
hand, and had kissed it before she could catch it away.

She bit her lip, frowning, smiling.

"Then will you keep your promise?" she asked severely.

"If you insist upon it, I suppose I 'll have to," he grudgingly
consented. "But a journey!" he sighed. "Ah, well. Where to?"

Her eyes gleamed, maliciously.

"To a very pleasant place," she said. "The journey is a pious
pilgrimage."

"Craford, just now, is the only pleasant place on the face of the
earth," vowed he. "A pious pilgrimage? Where to?"

He had, I think, some vague notion that she might mean a pilgrimage to
the Holy Well of St. Winefride in Wales; though, for that matter, why
not to the Holy Well of St. Govor in Kensington Gardens?

"A pious pilgrimage to the home of your ancestors," said Susanna. "The
journey is a journey to the little, unknown, beautiful island of
Sampaolo."

Her eyes gleamed, maliciously, exultantly.

But Anthony fell back, aghast.

"Sampaolo?" he cried.

"Yes," said she, quietly.

"Oh, I say!" He writhed, he groaned. "That is too much. Really!"

"That is my condition," said Susanna. Her mouth was firm.

"You don't mean it--you can't mean it." He frowned his incredulity.

"I mean it literally," she persisted. "You must make a journey to
Sampaolo."

"But what's the _sense_ of