g took me
round the canals in the most beautiful gondola belonging to Lord
Deerehurst. We saw all the interesting people from the hotels, and
heard the music; and afterwards Mr. Barnard brought me to the Palazzo
Ugochini and introduced me to Lady Frances Hope. She was charmingly
kind and hospitable; and made me promise to go again to-night--and to
bring you."

Milbanke's face fell.

"But, my dear----" he began deprecatingly.

"Oh, you must come!--you must! Lady Frances Hope feels sure she has met
you before. You must come!"

Milbanke looked distressed.

"But, my dear----"

"Yes, I know you hate society. But just this once--I--I _wish_ you to
come----"

She made the appeal with a sudden anxious gesture, born of a very
subtle, a very instinctive motive--a motive that had for its basis an
obscure and quite unacknowledged sense of self-protection.

Milbanke--materialist born--heard only the words, noting nothing of the
undermeaning.

"But, my dear," he expostulated, "the thing is--is impossible. Mr.
Angelo Tomes has promised to expound his theories to me after dinner
to-night----"

He looked at her nervously.

She was silent for a minute or two--suddenly and profoundly conscious
that, in all the radiant glory of her surroundings, she stood alone. At
the painful consciousness, she felt her throat swell, but with a
defiant refusal to be conquered by her feelings, she gave a quick, high
laugh.

"Oh, very well!" she cried--"very well! As you like!"

And without looking at him again, she turned and entered the
coffee-room of the hotel.

Having partaken very hastily of her morning meal, she returned to the
terrace, where--among the other early loungers--she found Barnard,
reading his English newspapers. Seeing her, he threw the papers down,
jumped to his feet, and came forward with evident pleasure.

"Good-morning!" he said cordially--"good-morning. You look as fresh as
a flower, after last night's dissipation."

She took his hand and met his suave smile with a sense of relief.

"Good-morning!" she returned softly. "Have you seen James? He
breakfasted hours ago."

"Yes," he said--"oh yes! I was talking to him just now. He has gone to
write letters."

"To write letters!"

There was no curiosity and very little interest audible in Clodagh's
tone.

"So he said. And you? What are you going to do?"

She looked up and smiled again.

"To idle," she said. "I have an inherited gift for idling."

Barnard