“Women are accustomed to act on impulse,” she explained. “Suppose we say that an impulse has directed my journey? And yet, this is the last place in the world that I wish to find myself in. Associations that I detest are connected with it in my mind. If I had a will of my own, I would never see it again. I hate Venice. As you see, however, I am here. When did you meet with such an unreasonable woman before? Never, I am sure!” She stopped, eyed him for a moment, and suddenly altered her tone. “When is Miss Agnes Lockwood expected to be in Venice?” she asked. It was not easy to throw Francis off his balance, but that extraordinary question did it. “How the devil did you know that Miss Lockwood was coming to Venice?” he exclaimed. She laughed—a bitter mocking laugh. “Say, I guessed it!” Something in her tone, or perhaps something in the audacious defiance of her eyes as they rested on him, roused the quick temper that was in Francis Westwick. “Lady Montbarry—!” he began. “Stop there!” she interposed. “Your brother Stephen’s wife calls herself Lady Montbarry now. I share my title with no woman. Call me by my name before I committed the fatal mistake of marrying your brother. Address me, if you please, as Countess Narona.” “Countess Narona,” Francis resumed, “if your object in claiming my acquaintance is to mystify me, you have come to the wrong man. Speak plainly, or permit me to wish you good evening.” “If your object is to keep Miss Lockwood’s arrival in Venice a secret,” she retorted, “speak plainly, Mr. Westwick, on _your_ side, and say so.” Her intention was evidently to irritate him; and she succeeded. “Nonsense!” he broke out petulantly. “My brother’s travelling arrangements are secrets to nobody. He brings Miss Lockwood here, with Lady Montbarry and the children. As you seem so well informed, perhaps you know why she is coming to Venice?” The Countess had suddenly become grave and thoughtful. She made no reply. The two strangely associated companions, having reached one extremity of the square, were now standing before the church of St. Mark. The moonlight was bright enough to show the architecture of the grand cathedral in its wonderful variety of detail. Even the pigeons of St. Mark were visible, in dark closely packed rows, roosting in the archways of the great entrance doors. “I never saw the old church look so beautiful by moonlight,” the Countess said quietly; speaking, not to Francis, but to herself. “Good-bye, St. Mark’s by moonlight! I shall not see you again.” She turned away from the church, and saw Francis listening to her with wondering looks. “No,” she resumed, placidly picking up the lost thread of the conversation, “I don’t know why Miss Lockwood is coming here, I only know that we are to meet in Venice.” “By previous appointment?”