"I give you leave!" she said gently. He met her glance, but almost immediately averted his eyes. And as he handed her to the seat, he turned swiftly to the gondolier, addressing him in Italian. The colloquy lasted but a few seconds, and at its conclusion the boat shot silently out into the canal. "This man does not understand a word of English," he said, as he dropped into his place by Clodagh's side. Again his words were peculiarly suggestive, and again his tone was curiously frank. Why should he suggest that their conversation was unintelligible? And suggest it in so impersonal a tone? She leant back in her cushioned seat and let her eyelids droop. Her mind was full of puzzling and delightful thoughts. Never had she tasted the mystery of Venice as she tasted it to-night. Every passing breath of wind, every scent blown from the dark and silent gardens, every distant laugh or broken word, was alive with unguessed meanings. The feverish excitement of the past week seemed to fall away. This was romance! This drifting with an inscrutable companion through an unfathomable night! Her eyes closed; she lay almost motionless, filled with an aimless, vague delight. All creation--with all creation's limitless possibilities--lay in the warm darkness that enveloped her. Then, with the instinct of senses newly and sharply astir, she became conscious that Gore was watching her. With a thrill of expectancy and anticipation, she opened her eyes. There is something very curious--something subtle and almost intimate--in the opening of one's eyes upon the steady scrutiny of another. As Clodagh raised her lids, her glance encountered Gore's; but on the instant that their eyes met, her joy in the moment--her exultant triumph--was suddenly killed. For the look that she surprised was not the look she had anticipated. It was interested, it was attentive, it was grave, but it held neither subjugation nor passion. As her brain woke to this realisation, she involuntarily raised herself in the cushioned seat. At the same moment, her companion leant slightly forward. "Mrs. Milbanke," he said quickly, "I have been watching you and thinking about you ever since I came to Venice. And at last I have decided, that I must tell you what my thoughts have been. "I am not very old--perhaps I have no right to speak. But a man sees a good deal of life, even if he wants to keep his eyes shut; and I have seen a great many people throw away their chances--take the false and refuse the true. I have seen some men do it, and I have seen many women--many, many women." He paused, but did not look at her. "It is a common, everyday occurrence; so common that one generally looks on at it with indifference. But sometimes--just sometimes--one stops to think. One feels the great, great pity of it!" He paused again, looking fixedly down at the strip of carpet beneath their feet. Clodagh glanced at him--a swift, searching, almost surreptitious look.