This made a diversion, and as the whole story had to be told him, the members of this strange family group were drawn nearer to each other in spite of themselves. Under cover of the little commotion of talk which got up, all of them sometimes speaking together, Rita, who began with her quick intelligence to realize the position, and to see her own ungraciousness, took the opportunity to draw a little nearer to Lydia. She kissed her when she went away. “I--I hope you will forgive me if I was bewildered,” she said: and Lydia forgave. But she was not the less stately when she left the party, feeling, with a little bitterness, that without her they would talk the matter over more at their ease. Lionel was stately, too. He made them his congratulations with the utmost gravity, as if pleasure were out of the question, and he took the earliest opportunity to remind Lydia a second time that his mother was waiting, and that the things must be sent to the boat. They went out of the house together in a sort of armed pacification, a truce hastily patched up, stalking side by side, not looking at each other. Going out into the street was a sort of solemnity to them, like steering out into the sea on a voyage in which they did not know what might happen. Anything might happen in it. They might quarrel for ever and ever, they might part not to see each other again. They might do anything--except walk quietly from the British Consulate to the Leone, where Lady Brotherton was waiting, fretting over Miss Joscelyn’s box, which was not locked, and of which no one could find the key. CHAPTER XIV. IN THE STREET. Out in the street, out upon the world, out upon a perfectly lonely sea, where they saw nobody and thought of nobody, but those two worlds of themselves, he and she, moving alone together, with a little space of clear daylight between them, the two parallel lines which can never come together so long as measurements last--For a time they moved on with no communication at all, each feeling very solitary, and unspeakably dignified and superior to all trivial thoughts and words. What could they have to say? What does he care? Lydia said to herself; what does anyone care but me? She had done her work, but she had not got much satisfaction out of it. It had estranged her friends from her, and everybody. Her mother would be pleased, that was always a little consolation to think of. Dear mother! and what if she were disappointed too? You never can tell how little satisfaction there is in a new thing till it has happened, she said to herself. In her preoccupation she stumbled over a crossing, over the rough pavement, and then her companion spoke. “Take care; these little streets are so many traps. Will you take my arm till we get into the smoother way?” “Thank you,” said Lydia, “it is not at all necessary. I did not notice where I was going.” “You prefer not to be helped in anything,” her adversary said.