She abhorred him!--but the thought that he was in Venice burned deep into senses and imagination. Should she tell William she had seen him? No, no! She would stand by herself, protect herself! So she stole back to bed, and lay there wakeful, starting guiltily at William's every movement. If he knew what had happened!--what she was thinking of! Why on earth should he? It would be monstrous to harass him on his holiday--with all these political affairs on his mind. Then suddenly--by an association of ideas--she sat up shivering, her hands pressed to her breast. The telegram--the book! Oh, but _of course_ she had been in time!--_of course_! Why, she had offered the man two hundred pounds! She lay down laughing at herself--forcing herself to try and sleep. XIX Sir Richard Lyster unfolded his _Times_ with a jerk. "A beastly rheumatic hole I call this," he said, looking angrily at the window of his hotel sitting-room, which showed drops from a light shower then passing across the lagoon. "And the dilatoriness of these Italian posts is, upon my soul, beyond bearing! This _Times_ is _three_ days old." Mary Lyster looked up from the letter she was writing. "Why don't you read the French papers, papa? I saw a _Figaro_ of yesterday in the Piazza this morning." "Because I can't!" was the indignant reply. "There wasn't the same amount of money squandered on _my_ education, my dear, that there has been on yours." Mary smiled a little, unseen. Her father had been, of course, at Eton. She had been educated by a succession of small and hunted governesses, mostly Swiss, whose remuneration had certainly counted among the frugalities rather than the extravagances of the family budget. Sir Richard read his _Times_ for a while. Mary continued to write checks for the board wages of the servants left at home, and to give directions for the beating of carpets and cleaning of curtains. It was dull work, and she detested it. Presently Sir Richard rose, with a stretch. He was a tall old man, with a shock of white hair and very black eyes. A victim to certain obscure forms of gout, he was in character neither stupid nor inhuman, but he suffered from the usual drawbacks of his class--too much money and too few ideas. He came abroad every year, reluctantly. He did not choose to be left behind by county neighbors whose wives talked nonsense about Botticelli. And Mary would have it. But Sir Richard's tours were generally one prolonged course of battle between himself and all foreign institutions; and if it was Mary who drove him forth, it was Mary also who generally hurried him home. "Who was it you saw last night in that ridiculous singing affair?" he asked, as he put the fire together. "Kitty Ashe--and her mother," said Mary--after a moment--still writing. "Her mother!--what, that disreputable woman?" "They weren't in the same gondola."