ola," said Pauline, after an instant's reflection--a little
pause which proved to be one of her idiosyncrasies.

"The gondola?" he repeated, doubtfully. "The gondola isn't very much by
itself."

"But the gondola never is by itself. It's the centre of everything. It's
all Venice and a living creature besides--something like a person's
heart. Of course I don't mean the gondolas on the souvenir spoons!" she
added, with the little ripple, that was so much prettier than a definite
smile. Decidedly, Miss Beverly was not stupid.

"You row, of course?" May had considered her question to be quite in
line with the conversation. "Is it very difficult?"

"Not after you get the knack. That is, the forward oar gets going after
a while. I rather think you would have to begin almost in long clothes
as these gondoliers do to get anything like their skill in really
handling the boat."

And now, in reply to Uncle Dan's artful substitute for a compliment, one
of the prospective frights remarked: "Mr. Daymond says they have a
lighter oar that he used to row with when he was a boy. He is going to
get it out for us to-morrow, and then we must all learn to row."

"I think I should prefer to learn by observation," Uncle Dan demurred,
as he pulled his stiff leg out from under the table. Upon which, dinner
being over, the girls went off in search of their wraps, while the
Colonel stepped out between the glass doors, and strolled down to the
bottom of the garden, where the water lapped the stone parapet.

The dusk had gathered and the stars were coming out. The water was
dotted with gondola-lights that twinkled here and there, like detached
will-o'-the wisps, the black hulls of the boats not being clearly
distinguishable in the shadow. Every gondola was out, excepting the few
unlucky ones that were detained for ferry service; for there was to be a
_festa_ this evening, and the _forestieri_,--by which pretty woodsy name
the tourist is designated in the most poetic of tongues,--could be
counted upon to pay fancy prices.

The Colonel, secure in his possession of Vittorio, took no part in the
bargaining that was going on at the hotel steps, a few yards away, and
all along the line of the garden wall. He was standing beside the iron
railing, pulling at a contemplative cigar, and listening, with
considerable relish, to the wrangling of the gondoliers, when he heard
a voice just under the wall, saying: "_Buona sera_, Signore! It's
Nanni."

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