Captain Jay appeared to be counting the thousand pinnacles of the church. “I think you really must be right,” he remarked at last. “There you are!” cried Rose Tramore, and walked rapidly away. He caught up with her, he laid his hand upon her arm to stay her. “If you’re going to Venice, let me go to Venice with you!” “You don’t even understand my condition.” “I’m sure you’re right, then: you must be right about everything.” “That’s not in the least true, and I don’t care a fig whether you’re sure or not. Please let me go.” He had barred her way, he kept her longer. “I’ll go and speak to your mother myself!” Even in the midst of another emotion she was amused at the air of audacity accompanying this declaration. Poor Captain Jay might have been on the point of marching up to a battery. She looked at him a moment; then she said: “You’ll be disappointed!” “Disappointed?” “She’s much more proper than grandmamma, because she’s much more amiable.” “Dear Miss Tramore—dear Miss Tramore!” the young man murmured helplessly. “You’ll see for yourself. Only there’s another condition,” Rose went on. “Another?” he cried, with discouragement and alarm. “You must understand thoroughly, before you throw in your lot with us even for a few days, what our position really is.” “Is it very bad?” asked Bertram Jay artlessly. “No one has anything to do with us, no one speaks to us, no one looks at us.” “Really?” stared the young man. “We’ve no social existence, we’re utterly despised.” “Oh, Miss Tramore!” Captain Jay interposed. He added quickly, vaguely, and with a want of presence of mind of which he as quickly felt ashamed: “Do none of your family—?” The question collapsed; the brilliant girl was looking at him. “We’re extraordinarily happy,” she threw out. “Now that’s all I wanted to know!” he exclaimed, with a kind of exaggerated cheery reproach, walking on with her briskly to overtake her mother.