rming of you to
remember! And how charming you look!" she added in a whisper meant for
Clodagh's ear alone.

Then with a movement of seemingly spontaneous hospitality, she turned
to the fair-haired stranger, who had fallen into conversation with
Barnard.

"Walter!" she said, "I should like you to know Mrs. Milbanke! Mrs.
Milbanke, allow me to introduce Sir Walter Gore!"

It was the affair of a moment. The stranger made a gesture of excuse to
Barnard; turned quickly, and bowed with well-bred deference. Then he
raised his head, and for the first time Clodagh met his glance--the
clear, fearless glance, slightly reserved, slightly aloof, that carried
with it the suggestion of the sea. His look was quiet, steady, and
absolutely impersonal.

And Clodagh, instantly conscious of this polite reserve, felt her face
redden. She was aware of a distinct sensation of being smaller--less
important to the scheme of things--than she had been five minutes
earlier. Her vanity was inexplicably--yet palpably--hurt. Her first
feeling was a distressed humility, her second an angry pride. Then a
new expression leaped into her eyes. Smartingly conscious of Barnard's
interested, quizzical glance fixed expectantly upon her, she challenged
the stranger's regard.

"How d'you do?" she said. "I think I have seen you before."

He smiled politely.

"Indeed!" he said. "In England?" His tone was courteous and attentive,
but neither curious nor interested.

Her colour deepened.

"No. Here in Venice--this morning. I was in Mr. Barnard's gondola when
you were coming from the station to your hotel."

He looked at her, then at Barnard--a perfectly honest, unaffected
glance.

"Indeed!" he said again. "I certainly remember seeing that Barnard was
not alone, but I was remiss enough not to notice who the lady was."

For one second a feeling of resentment--almost of dislike--stung
Clodagh. The next, her old daring mood of years ago sprang up within
her.

"Where I come from," she said, "no man would have the courage to say
that."

Barnard laughed.

"Assume a virtue, if you have it not! Is that the Irish code?"

Gore smiled.

"If that _is_ the Irish code," he said gravely. "I'm afraid Ireland only
echoes the rest of Europe. Assumption is the art of the twentieth
century. The man who can assume most, climbs highest! Isn't that so,
Lady Frances?"

He turned to their hostess.

Clodagh stood silent. She was filled with a humiliating, childish