As they freed themselves from the group of players, they paused simultaneously, and looked for a moment round the large, cool salon, about which the elder or more serious of the assembly were scattered for conversation or cards. Neither spoke; but after a moment's wait, Deerehurst turned his pale eyes in the direction of the open windows, and by the faintest lifting of his eyebrows conveyed a question. Clodagh laughed; then silently bent her head, and a moment later they moved forward together across the polished floor. As they passed one of the many groups of statuary that brightened the more shadowed portion of the room, she caught a glimpse of her hostess, once again in conversation with Sir Walter Gore, and she was conscious in that fleeting moment of Gore's clear, reflective eyes resting on her in a quick regard. With a swift, almost defiant movement she lifted her head, and turned ostentatiously to Deerehurst. "Is it to be philosophy to-night?" she asked in a low, soft voice. He paused and looked at her, his cold, pale eyes slow and searching in their regard. "Not to-night--Circe," he said almost below his breath. Clodagh coloured, gave another quick, excited laugh, and, moving past him, stepped through one of the open windows. Gaining the balcony, she did not, as usual, drop into one of the deep lounge chairs; but, moving forward, stood by the iron railing and looked down upon the quiet canal. The night was exceptionally clear, even for Italy. Every star was reflected in the smooth dark waters; while over the opposite palaces a crescent moon hung like a slender reaping-hook, extended from heaven to garner some mystic harvest. For a moment Deerehurst hesitated to disturb her; but at last, waiving his scruples, he went softly forward, and stood beside her. "Are you offended?" he asked in a very low voice. "No!" Her answer came almost absently; her eyes were fixed upon the moon. "Then sad?" "I don't know! Perhaps!" He drew a little nearer. "And why sad?" She gave a quick sigh, and turned from the glories of the night. "I have only two days more in Venice. Isn't that reason for being sad?" "But why leave Venice?" "My husband is leaving." He smiled faintly. "And is he such a tyrant that you must go where he goes?" She laughed involuntarily. "A tyrant!" she said. "Oh no! I can scarcely say he is a tyrant." "Then why do you go with him?" She looked round for a moment, then her eyes returned to the pageant of the sky. "Why does one do anything?" she said suddenly in a changed voice. With a quiet movement Deerehurst leant forward over the railing, and looked into her face. "Usually we do things because we must," he said softly. "But compulsion is not always disagreeable. Sometimes we are compelled to action by our own desires----"