u are not going to town till the
afternoon."

"Will you come with me?" Aurora asked, for she was in a good humour with
Folco.

He rose at once.

"I'll go with you for a stroll," he said, "but I don't think it is of
any use to look for Marcello near the house."

"It can do no harm."

"And it will do us good to walk a bit."

They went down the path and through the trees towards the break in the
bank.

"The sand was very wet this morning, even inside the bank," Aurora
said. "I daresay we shall find his footsteps and be able to guess which
way he went."

"Very likely," Folco answered.

He pushed back his tweed cap a little and passed his handkerchief across
his smooth brow. Aurora noticed the action, because he did not usually
get warm so easily.

"Are you hot?" she asked carelessly.

"A little," he answered. "The air is so heavy this morning."

"Perhaps you are not quite well," said Aurora. "You are a little pale."

Apparently something in her youthfully patronising tone came as near
irritating him as anything ever could.

"What does it matter, whether I am hot or not?" he asked, almost
impatiently, and again he passed his handkerchief over his forehead.

"I did not mean to annoy you," Aurora answered with uncommon meekness.

They came near the break in the bank, and she looked at the sand on each
side of her. She thought it seemed smoother than usual, and that there
were not so many little depressions in it, where there had been
footsteps on previous days, half obliterated by wind and rain.

"I cannot see where you and I passed an hour ago," she said, in some
surprise.

"The wind draws through the gap with tremendous strength," Folco
explained. "Just before the gale moderated there was a heavy squall with
rain."

"Was there? I did not notice that--but I was on the lee side of the
house. The wind must have smoothed the sand, just like a flat-iron!"

"Yes." Corbario answered indifferently and gazed out to sea.

Aurora left his side and looked about, going to a little distance from
the gap, first on one side and then on the other.

"It is as if the wind had done it on purpose!" she cried impatiently.
"It is as smooth as if it had all been swept with a gardener's broom."

Corbario turned, lighted his extinguished cigar, and watched her, as she
moved about, stooping now and then to examine the sand.

"I don't believe it is of any use to look here," he said. "Besides, he
will be back in time for