"What is it?" she asked, her momentary curiosity dropping back to indifference. "Was that last intaglio unauthentic after all?" Milbanke glanced up with an annoyed expression. "This does not concern the intaglio," he said. "This is from Barnard--David Barnard, who acts as my broker, and looks after my business affairs. You have heard me speak of him." "Of course. Often." An expression of interest awakened in Clodagh's face. "Well, this letter is from him--written from Milan. Most tiresome and annoying its coming at this juncture!" He scanned the letter for the second time. "I particularly want to run down into Sicily before Scarpio leaves." "And does the letter prevent you?" There was interest and a slight hopefulness in the tone of Clodagh's voice. "I am very much afraid that it does." "But why?" He folded the letter carefully and returned it to its envelope. "Because Barnard is coming to Venice in two days, and suggests that I should meet him there." "Venice!" Clodagh said the word softly. "Yes. Most tiresome!--most annoying! But he thinks it an opportunity that should not be lost. I have not had an interview with him since we left Nance at school. He came then to our hotel in London; I do not think you met him." "No. But I remember his coming to see you. I remember Nance and I thought he had such a jolly laugh; we heard it from her bedroom--the one that opened off our sitting-room." With the mention of this new subject, trivial though it was, Clodagh's manner had changed. "But what about Venice?" she asked, after a moment's pause. "Will you go?" Milbanke looked thoughtful. "Well, I--I scarcely know what to say. Of course I could refuse on the ground of this business in Sicily. But it is a question of expediency. A few days with Barnard now may save me a journey to London next year. Still it is very provoking!" "But Venice!" Clodagh suggested, and again her tone was soft. More than any other in Italy, the beautiful city of the Adriatic had appealed to her curiosity and her imagination. With a quick glance her eyes travelled over the sheltered, drowsy garden, sloping downward, terrace below terrace. "I should love to see Venice," she said suddenly. "I always picture it so wide and silent and mysterious." Milbanke looked up from the opening of his third letter. "Venice is unhealthy," he said prosaically. For one moment her lip curled. "Perhaps that is why it appeals to me," she said with a flash of the old, insubordinate spirit. Then suddenly her eyes met her husband's quiet, puzzled gaze and the passing light died out of her face. With a hasty gesture she lifted her coffee cup to her lips and set it down empty. "Come along, Mick!" she said, pushing back her chair and speaking with unconscious sarcasm. "Come and let us see whether we can find any roses in the garden!" CHAPTER II