“M. Nevil vows he is a better brother to me than you, who dart away on an impulse and leave us threading all Venice till we do not know where we are, naughty brother!” “My little sister, the spot where you are,” rejoined Roland, “is precisely the spot where I left you, and I defy you to say you have gone on without me. This is the identical riva I stepped out on to buy you a packet of Venetian ballads.” They recognized the spot, and for a confirmation of the surprising statement, Roland unrolled several sheets of printed blotting-paper, and rapidly read part of a Canzonetta concerning Una Giovine who reproved her lover for his extreme addiction to wine: “Ma sè, ma sè, Cotanto bevè, Mi nò, mi nò, No ve sposerò.” “This astounding vagabond preferred Nostrani to his heart’s mistress. I tasted some of their Nostrani to see if it could be possible for a Frenchman to exonerate him.” Roland’s wry face at the mention of Nostrani brought out the chief gondolier, who delivered himself: “Signore, there be hereditary qualifications. One must be born Italian to appreciate the merits of Nostrani!” Roland laughed. He had covered his delinquency in leaving his sister, and was full of an adventure to relate to Nevil, a story promising well for him. CHAPTER VII. AN AWAKENING FOR BOTH Renée was downcast. Had she not coquetted? The dear young Englishman had reduced her to defend herself, the which fair ladies, like besieged garrisons, cannot always do successfully without an attack at times, which, when the pursuer is ardent, is followed by a retreat, which is a provocation; and these things are coquettry. Her still fresh convent-conscience accused her of it pitilessly. She could not forgive her brother, and yet she dared not reproach him, for that would have inculpated Nevil. She stepped on to the Piazzetta thoughtfully. Her father was at Florian’s, perusing letters from France. “We are to have the marquis here in a week, my child,” he said. Renée nodded. Involuntarily she looked at Nevil. He caught the look, with a lover’s quick sense of misfortune in it. She heard her brother reply to him: “Who? the Marquis de Rouaillout? It is a jolly gaillard of fifty who spoils no fun.” “You mistake his age, Roland,” she said. “Forty-nine, then, my sister.” “He is not that.” “He looks it.” “You have been absent.” “Probably, my arithmetical sister, he has employed the interval to grow younger. They say it is the way with green gentlemen of a certain age. They advance and they retire. They perform the first steps of a quadrille ceremoniously, and we admire them.” “What’s that?” exclaimed the Comte de Croisnel. “You talk nonsense, Roland. M. le marquis is hardly past forty. He is in his prime.” “Without question, mon pere. For me, I was merely offering proof that he can preserve his prime unlimitedly.” “He is not a subject for mockery, Roland.” “Quite the contrary; for reverence!” “Another than you, my boy, and he would march you out.”