“I should fancy so,” she answered, in that quiet way she always had with Francis Murray. Sitting there close by his side, she was thrilling with a strange sense of utter content and peace. She did not feel the least eagerness to reach the party. She knew too well that no one would give her a welcome, except Alexie and Ralph. But the two miles were quickly passed over, and they saw at a little distance ahead in the starlight the old black hulk of the wrecked ship and light figures moving about it. Blent with the voice of the sea came the soft notes of a guitar, and Ralph Allen’s rich tenor voice singing very sweetly a little song of love and sorrow. The pathetic last words were dying on the air as Francis Murray gave Italy his hand to assist her from the carriage. But why did both their hearts sink so strangely as he released the little fingers? Why did both sigh in unison? The melody with its sweet refrain had touched them with audible sadness. Italy went toward the party a little timidly, as one uncertain of a welcome, but Alexie had an eager embrace ready. “You darling, I’m so glad Mr. Murray brought you! Come, I’ve saved you a seat. Miss Vale, ladies and gentlemen--but I think you’re all acquainted. The same crowd we had on the yacht, dear. You’re just in time; the moon will soon be up. You have missed some lovely singing by not getting here a little sooner. Can’t we have it all over again?” “No, no!” vociferated all the singers. “It is our turn now. Let Miss Vale give us a song.” “Let her rest first,” Francis Murray said, in a voice of quiet authority. Then he went and stooped over Alys, where she was sulking a little apart. “You will give us that pretty little recitation of yours--‘A Portrait’--will you not?” He knew that Alys loved him, and he guessed at his mother’s hopes and plans. He was sorry for the fair, blue-eyed girl who had set her heart on him only to be disappointed. Perhaps--if Italy had never come, with her voice like music and her dusky Oriental eyes--he might in time have grown fond of pretty Alys, and if he had never discovered what a petty, ignoble soul she had, he might have married her, but--now all was changed. His heart had proved traitor to his will. He could never feel for the pretty blonde anything deeper than pity. Alys was furious because he had gone back for Italy. She had, indeed, now given up all hope of winning him, and considered dissimulation no longer necessary, so she tossed her golden head angrily, and curtly refused his request. He turned away from her, and asked her aunt for that sweet little song she had composed herself, and the lady very willingly complied, though her voice was too weak and thin to do justice to her little ballad of love and jealousy.