McTaggart felt that the atmosphere was charged with electricity. The poet never opened his mouth, the Principessa was openly troubled. The only person who seemed unmoved by the depression in the air was Don Cesare, her youngest son, who made an unexpected sixth. A handsome youth of seventeen with a black moustache and charming manner--already that of a man of the world--he chattered gaily, enjoying his lunch. "I wish you would come with me this evening," he said to his host eagerly--"into the marshes and bring your gun--I'm going out after 'beccaccini.' I've had a special punt made for the narrow waterways to the lake. It's a beauty--I want to try it--I'm sure we should have some capital sport." "All right--what time?" McTaggart liked his youngest guest. "About five. If we find it's hot we can lie up somewhere in the dykes." He referred to the curious intricate scheme of irrigation in the plain that lies between the hills and sea--the famous draining of the marshes. For the low land looks like a chequer board, crossed and recrossed by narrow streams that widen into two big lakes--a favorite haunt for wild fowl. "I've always wanted to explore those long ditches in a boat. I tried once and was nearly poisoned--my keel kept sticking in the mud." "Exactly--that's the trouble--the smell!" Don Cesare nodded gaily. "That's why I've had this punt made flat bottomed and very narrow. In the deep parts you can use a paddle and where it's shallow a long pole--against the bank--_not_ in the water!" He turned to the Countess with a smile. "Do come and see us off--and we'll take you a little way to try it. Further on there are low boughs, not designed to suit ladies' hats." The pretty woman smiled back, looking at him with her wide, dark eyes. "I'm so sorry--but I can't--it's my evening with Marco for the Casino." She flung the challenge across the table. The Count wearily shrugged his shoulders while the Poet, with saturnine face, seemed to enjoy the situation. The Principessa, stirring herself, broke the pregnant silence that followed. "Cara Emilia," she said, "have you heard of Bellanti's misfortune?" "No----" the Countess turned quickly--"what has happened?" Don Cesare watched her, a mischievous light in his black eyes, as she went on languidly. "His sister is my dearest friend and she hasn't written to me for weeks! I was really beginning to wonder if she were ill. What is the matter?" "He's ruined." The Princess turned up her hands with an eloquent gesture of finality. "He was always gambling, as you know, and then he took to borrowing money--enormous sums, I am told--on the strength of his Aunt's fortune--Donna Teresa Bellanti." "Did you ever meet her?" She paused in her story to open her fan and, lazily, wafted it backward and forward before her pale middle-aged face. "I don't think so." The Countess smiled, feeling across the narrow table her husband's persistent glance and the silence of the rest of the party.