Maria, but merely gave orders and
instructions. His tone and manner were convincing. Like all the rest
of her sex Maria respected a man who knew what he wanted, and showed
that he intended to get it.

Emile made his way into the cool, shady Rambla, where a double avenue
of plane trees met overhead, and where a grateful darkness could always
be found even at mid-day. On either side of the promenade were the
finest shops, the gaiest _cafes_. A band of students passed him,
waving a scarlet flag and shouting a revolutionary _chanson_ of the
most fiery description. Emile scowled angrily. He had not the least
sympathy with these childish exhibitions of defiance, which he
considered utterly futile and a great waste of time. They did harm to
the serious aims and intentions of the Anarchist community, and were
often the means of getting quite the wrong people arrested.

At the Flower Market (La Rambla de las Flores) he paused to look at the
heaped roses, gorgeous against the grey stones. Daily they were
brought there in thousands, dew-drenched and fresh from the gardens of
Saria. He took up a loose handful from the piled mass of sweetness and
laid it down again.

Red roses were not for Fatalite. They would not suit her, and she had
good reason to loathe the colour that was symbolical of blood and
sacrifice. He chose instead a sheaf of lilies, long-stalked and
heavily scented, and despatched them in the care of a picturesque
_gamin_. Sobrenski and the others would certainly have considered him
hopelessly mad if they had known. It was many years since he had sent
flowers to a woman. His present life did not encourage little
courtesies and graceful actions. It was in the natural course of
events that all the comrades should help one another in every possible
way, but none of them made any virtue out of it. It was all done in
the most matter-of-fact way possible. As he had told Arithelli when
they had talked up at Montserrat, one only kissed the hands of a Marie
Spiridonova. And he was sending bouquets as to some _mondaine_ of the
vanished world and of his youth.

He shrugged and walked slowly on. In passing the house where Michael
Furness lodged, he stopped to leave a message as to Arithelli's
condition, and the advisability of another visit.

When "_The Witch_" touched at Corfu for letters Count Vladimir found
among them one that twisted afresh the thread of two destinies--his own
and that of a woman. Hi