Renée rippled her eyebrows. She divined a something behind that remark, and as she was aware of the grief of Rosamund’s life, her quick intuition whispered that it might be connected with the gallant officer dead on the battle-field. “Madame, if you know it too well...” she said. “No; it is always worth seeing,” said Rosamund, “and I think, mademoiselle, with your permission, I should accompany you.” “It is only a whim of mine, madame. I can stay on shore.” “Not when it is unnecessary to forego a pleasure.” “Say, my last day of freedom.” Renée kissed her hand. She is terribly winning, Rosamund avowed. Renée was in debate whether the woman devoted to Nevil would hear her and help. Just then Roland and Nevil returned from their boat, where they had left carpenters and upholsterers at work, and the delicate chance for an understanding between the ladies passed by. The young men were like waves of ocean overwhelming it, they were so full of their boat, and the scouring and cleaning out of it, and provisioning, and making it worthy of its freight. Nevil was surprised that Mrs. Culling should have consented to come, and asked her if she really wished it—really; and “Really,” said Rosamund; “certainly.” “Without dubitation,” cried Roland. “And now my little Renée has no more shore-qualms; she is smoothly chaperoned, and madame will present us tea on board. All the etcæteras of life are there, and a mariner’s eye in me spies a breeze at sunset to waft us out of Malamocco.” The count listened to the recital of their preparations with his usual absent interest in everything not turning upon Art, politics, or social intrigue. He said, “Yes, good, good,” at the proper intervals, and walked down the riva to look at the busy boat, said to Nevil, “You are a sailor; I confide my family to you,” and prudently counselled Renée to put on the dresses she could toss to the deep without regrets. Mrs. Culling he thanked fervently for a wonderful stretch of generosity in lending her presence to the madcaps. Altogether the day was a reanimation of external Venice. But there was a thunderbolt in it; for about an hour before sunset, when the ladies were superintending and trying not to criticize the ingenious efforts to produce a make-believe of comfort on board for them, word was brought down to the boat by the count’s valet that the Marquis de Rouaillout had arrived. Renée turned her face to her brother superciliously. Roland shrugged. “Note this, my sister,” he said; “an anticipation of dates in paying visits precludes the ripeness of the sentiment of welcome. It is, however, true that the marquis has less time to spare than others.” “We have started; we are on the open sea. How can we put back?” said Renée. “You hear, François; we are on the open sea,” Roland addressed the valet. “Monsieur has cut loose his communications with land,” François responded, and bowed from the landing.