s eyes went
back to the trail of smoke left by the little steamer.

"And Costantina, Tony. You are leaving her behind?" It took some courage
to put this question, but she did not flinch; she put it with a laugh
which contained nothing but raillery.

Tony sighed--a deep melodramatic sigh--and laid his hand on his heart.

"Ah, signorina, zat Costantina, she has not any heart. She love one man
one day, anozzer ze next. I go away to forget."

His eyes dropped to hers; for an instant the mocking light died out; a
questioning, wounded look took its place.

She felt a quick impulse to hold out her hands, to say, "Jerry, don't
go!" If she only knew! Was he going because he thought that she wished to
dismiss him, or because he wished to dismiss himself? Was it pique that
bade him carry the play to the end, or was it merely the desire to get
out of an awkward situation gracefully?

She stood hesitating, scanning the terrace pavement with troubled eyes;
when she raised them to his face the chance was gone. He straightened his
shoulders with an air of finality and picked up his hat from the
balustrade.

"Some day, signorina, in New York, perhaps I play a little tune underneaf
your window."

She nodded and smiled.

"I will give the monkey a penny when he comes--good-bye."

He bowed over her hand and touched it lightly to his lips.

"Signorina, _addio_!"

As he strode away into the dusky lane of cypresses, she heard him
whistling softly "Santa Lucia." It was the last stroke, she reflected,
angrily; he might at least have omitted that! She turned away and dropped
down on the water steps to wait for the _Farfalla_. The terrace, the
lake, the beautiful Italian night, suddenly seemed deserted and empty.
Before she knew it was coming, she had leaned her head against the
balustrade with a deep sob. She caught herself sharply. She to sit there
crying, while Tony went whistling on his way!

* * * * *

As the _Farfalla_ drifted idly over the water, Constance sat in the
stern, her chin in her hand, moodily gazing at the shimmering path of
moonlight. But no one appeared to notice her silence, since Nannie was
talking enough for both. And the only thing she talked about was Jerry
Junior, how funny and clever and charming he was, how phenomenally
good--for a man; when she showed signs of stopping, Mr. Wilder by a
question started her on. It seemed to Constance an interminable two
hours before they