The
approaching boat was a large one, rowed by two gondoliers; for, though
it had only one passenger, it carried a pile of luggage, much
travel-worn. Clodagh's eyes noted this, but they did so very briefly;
for instantly the gondola drew level with her own, her glance lifted
itself to the owner of the luggage--the man to whom Barnard had waved
his greeting.

She saw him with great distinctness, for the early light in Italy is
peculiarly penetrating; and her first thought--a purely instinctive
one--was that he possessed a sailor's face. His strong, clean-cut
features suggested a keen and intimate relationship with natural
elements; his healthily clear skin was tanned by sun and wind; and his
eyes looked out upon the world with the quiet reliance that seems a
reflexion of the steadfast ocean. The first impression of the man was
vaguely daunting. There was something self-contained, even cold, in the
erect pose of his tall, muscular figure, in the manner in which he held
his head. Then, quite unexpectedly, his critic gained a new impression
of him. As the gondolas passed each other, he leant forward in his seat
and his lips parted in a very pleasant smile.

"Ubiquitous as usual, Barnard!" he called in a strong, fresh voice. "I
might have known you would be the first man I should run across!"

He raised his cap, and Clodagh saw that his hair was crisp, close-cut,
and very fair, giving an agreeable touch of youthfulness to his
sunburnt face.

Barnard laughed, and responded with some words of welcome.

The stranger smiled and nodded.

"Come round and see me this afternoon!" he cried, as the gondolas drew
apart. "I'm staying at the Danieli!"

"Who was that?" Clodagh asked involuntarily, as the stranger's boat
glided out of sight. Then she blushed suddenly. "Why are you laughing?"
she demanded.

Barnard smiled.

"I am not laughing, Mrs. Milbanke," he murmured. "I assure you I am not
laughing. It is the merest smile at nature's little bit of stage
management. That interestingly bronzed young Englishman is Sir Walter
Gore!"

CHAPTER VIII

This little incident--this small and yet significant interlude--in
Clodagh's day of new-born freedom, possessed a weight and an importance
all its own. It is quite possible that, taken as a mere note in the
tuneful, inconsequent symphony of her social life in Venice, Barnard's
expression of his sentiments might have glanced across her mind,
leaving no definite impression.