Renée said: “I know my ancestors are bound up in me, by my sentiments to them; and so do you, M. Nevil. We shame them if we fail in courage and honour. Is it not so? If we break a single pledged word we cast shame on them. Why, that makes us what we are; that is our distinction: we dare not be weak if we would. And therefore when Venice is reproached with avarice and luxury, I choose to say—what do we hear of the children of misers? and I say I am certain that those old cold Huguenot stonecutters were proud and grasping. I am sure they were, and they _shall_ share the blame.” Nevil plunged into his volume. He called on Roland for an opinion. “Friend,” said Roland, “opinions may differ: mine is, considering the defences of the windows, that the only way into these houses or out of them bodily was the doorway.” Roland complimented his sister and friend on the prosecution of their studies: he could not understand a word of the subject, and yawning, he begged permission to be allowed to land and join the gondola at a distant quarter. The gallant officer was in haste to go. Renée stared at her brother. He saw nothing; he said a word to the gondoliers, and quitted the boat. Mars was in pursuit. She resigned herself, and ceased then to be a girl. CHAPTER VI. LOVE IN VENICE The air flashed like heaven descending for Nevil alone with Renée. They had never been alone before. Such happiness belonged to the avenue of wishes leading to golden mists beyond imagination, and seemed, coming on him suddenly, miraculous. He leaned toward her like one who has broken a current of speech, and waits to resume it. She was all unsuspecting indolence, with gravely shadowed eyes. “I throw the book down,” he said. She objected. “No; continue: I like it.” Both of them divined that the book was there to do duty for Roland. He closed it, keeping a finger among the leaves; a kind of anchorage in case of indiscretion. “Permit me to tell you, M. Nevil, you are inclined to play truant to-day.” “I am.” “Now is the very time to read; for my poor Roland is at sea when we discuss our questions, and the book has driven him away.” “But we have plenty of time to read. We miss the scenes.” “The scenes are green shutters, wet steps, barcaroli, brown women, striped posts, a scarlet night-cap, a sick fig-tree, an old shawl, faded spots of colour, peeling walls. They might be figured by a trodden melon. They all resemble one another, and so do the days here.” “That’s the charm. I wish I could look on you and think the same. You, as you are, for ever.” “Would you not let me live my life?” “I would not have you alter.” “Please to be pathetic on that subject after I am wrinkled, monsieur.” “You want commanding, mademoiselle.” Renée nestled her chin, and gazed forward through her eyelashes. “Venice is like a melancholy face of a former beauty who has ceased to rouge, or wipe away traces of her old arts,” she said, straining for common talk, and showing the strain.