mention of this new subject, trivial though it was, Clodagh's
manner had changed.

"But what about Venice?" she asked, after a moment's pause. "Will you
go?"

Milbanke looked thoughtful.

"Well, I--I scarcely know what to say. Of course I could refuse on the
ground of this business in Sicily. But it is a question of expediency.
A few days with Barnard now may save me a journey to London next year.
Still it is very provoking!"

"But Venice!" Clodagh suggested, and again her tone was soft. More than
any other in Italy, the beautiful city of the Adriatic had appealed to
her curiosity and her imagination. With a quick glance her eyes
travelled over the sheltered, drowsy garden, sloping downward, terrace
below terrace.

"I should love to see Venice," she said suddenly. "I always picture it
so wide and silent and mysterious."

Milbanke looked up from the opening of his third letter.

"Venice is unhealthy," he said prosaically.

For one moment her lip curled.

"Perhaps that is why it appeals to me," she said with a flash of the
old, insubordinate spirit. Then suddenly her eyes met her husband's
quiet, puzzled gaze and the passing light died out of her face. With a
hasty gesture she lifted her coffee cup to her lips and set it down
empty.

"Come along, Mick!" she said, pushing back her chair and speaking with
unconscious sarcasm. "Come and let us see whether we can find any roses
in the garden!"

CHAPTER II

Clodagh's manner was careless and her gait nonchalant as she rose from
table and crossed the terrace followed by her dog; but inwardly she
burned with a newly kindled sense of anticipation. There was no
particular reason why the idea of a journey to Venice, for the purpose
of seeing a stock-broker--even though that stock-broker was a personal
friend of Milbanke's--should be instinct with any promise; yet the idea
excited her. With the exception of the journey to England with Nance,
it was the first time in four years that her husband had seriously
contemplated any move not ostensibly connected with his hobby. And the
thought of Venice; the suggestion of encountering any one whose
interests lay outside antiquities, had power to elate her. As she left
the breakfast table, her steps unconsciously quickened; and Mick,
attentively sensitive to her altered gait, wagged his short tail, gave
one sharp, incisive bark of question, and looked up at her with ears
inquisitively pricked.

She paused and looked