ions, though such a proceeding ran
counter to one of the Colonel's most perverse and therefore most valued
theories. That a woman should take a second husband had long seemed to
him both natural and proper, but the reasons were obvious, to his mind
at least, why a man should be more constant. Be that as it may, however,
here they were, Uncle Dan and his Pollys, and to-day, of all days, the
Colonel was little disposed to cavil at anything.

"What good manners this man has!" Pauline remarked, as Vittorio made his
answer to the Signorina.

"Yes"; Uncle Dan replied. "He never slips up on that."

"Where does he get it?"

"A family trait. His father had it when he used to row me twenty-five
years ago, and I've no doubt his forbears were all like that. It's a
matter of race."

"A matter of race!" cried May. "Why, Uncle Dan, when that Italian in the
train the other day stared us out of countenance and we asked you to do
something about it, you told us it was the custom of the country!"

"That's only Uncle Dan's way of shirking his responsibilities," Pauline
explained. "It's lucky for you, May, that I'm getting on in life. I
don't know what you would do if you hadn't any better chaperon than
Uncle Dan."

"And yet, you don't seem so very old," May remarked, rather doubtfully,
tilting her golden head at a critical angle. "I don't believe anybody
would suspect you of being twenty-seven."

"That's a comfort," laughed Pauline, with a humorous appreciation that
was like Uncle Dan's.

Pauline Beverly had not, like her sister, a reputation for beauty, yet
she possessed undeniable charm. Her hair was of a sunny brown, and
softly undulating; her eyes were of the same shade as her hair, and
capable of a changing light, and, when she smiled, her face, soft and
pure, but not brilliant in colouring, had somehow the look of a brook
rippling over brown pebbles in a shady place, where the sunshine comes
in threads and hints, rather than in an obliterating flood of light. The
years, whose sum seemed to May so considerable, had performed their
modelling very gently, conferring upon the countenance that winning
quality which is the gift of those who habitually think more of others
than of themselves.

They were coming in past the red sentinel-tower of San Giorgio, May
still sitting on the low steps facing the stern of the gondola. As the
young girl looked past her companions, across the silvery spaces of the
lagoon, her eyes grew dream