faint and costly perfume that emanated from his
clothes. But she felt these things vaguely, impersonally, as items in a
drama unconnected with herself. When his next words came, it was
curiosity rather than dread that stirred in her mind.

"It is my desires that are forcing me to speak now. The desire to see
you again after you leave Venice--the desire to see more of you than a
mere acquaintance sees--to be something more than a mere friend----"

Clodagh still looked intently at the stars, but unconsciously her lips
parted.

"Why?" she asked below her breath. And it seemed to her that the word
was not spoken by her, but by some one else.

With an eager gesture, Deerehurst extended his hand, and his long, pale
fingers closed over her own.

Then out across the darkness and the silence of the balcony floated the
strong, decisive voice of Lady Frances Hope.

"Lord Deerehurst!" it called. "Lord Deerehurst! So sorry, but Rose
wants you to give an expert opinion upon one point in a game of bridge.
It won't take two minutes."

The voice faded away again as its owner moved back into the room.

At the sound of his name, Deerehurst had drawn himself erect. Now,
bending forward silently and swiftly, he lifted the hand he was still
holding and kissed it vehemently. The next moment he had crossed the
balcony and entered the salon.

Left alone, Clodagh stood motionless. With a vivid physical
consciousness, she could still feel the pressure of his cold lips upon
her hand; but her mental sensations were benumbed. That something had
occurred she dimly realised; that some point--some climax--had been
reached she was vaguely aware. But what its personal bearing upon her
own life might be, she made no attempt to guess. With a dazed mind she
gazed out across the quiet canal, striving to marshal her ideas.

For several seconds she stood in this state of mental confusion; then,
with disconcerting suddenness, a new incident obtruded itself upon her
mind. With a violent start, she became conscious that some one had
passed through the open window, and was coming towards her, across the
balcony.

She turned sharply. But as she did so, her fingers slipped from the
railing, and all thought of Deerehurst's kiss was banished from her
mind. With a sense of acute surprise, she recognised the figure of Sir
Walter Gore.

Taking no notice of her dismayed silence, he came quietly forward.

"Good-evening, Mrs. Milbanke," he said. "Have you be