Then a thought, like a burning arrow, pierced her. Her hands locked, straining one against the other. If this intrigue were indeed renewed--if Geoffrey succeeded in tempting Kitty from her husband--why then--then-- She shivered before the images that were passing through her mind, and, rising, she put away her letters and rang for the waiter, to order dinner. "Where shall we go?" said Kitty, languidly, putting down the French novel she was reading. * * * * * "Mr. Ashe suggested San Lazzaro." Margaret looked up from her writing as Kitty moved towards her. "The rain seems to have all cleared off." "Well, I'm sure it doesn't matter where," said Kitty, and was turning away; but Margaret caught her hand and caressed it. "Naughty Kitty! why this sea air can't put some more color into your cheeks I don't understand." "I'm _not_ pale!" cried Kitty, pouting. "Margaret, you do croak about me so! If you say any more I'll go and rouge till you'll be ashamed to go out with me--there! Where's William?" William opened the door as she spoke, the _Gazetta di Venezia_ in one hand and a telegram in the other. "Something for you, darling," he said, holding it out to Kitty. "Shall I open it?" "Oh no!" said Kitty, hastily. "Give it me. It's from my Paris woman." "Ah--ha!" laughed Ashe. "Some extravagance you want to keep to yourself, I'll be bound. I've a good mind to see!" And he teasingly held it up above her head. But she gave a little jump, caught it, and ran off with it to her room. "Much regret impossible stop publication. Fifty copies distributed already. Writing." She dropped speechless on the edge of her bed, the crumpled telegram in her hand. The minutes passed. "When will you be ready?" said Ashe, tapping at the door. "Is the gondola there?" "Waiting at the steps." "Five minutes!" Ashe departed. She rose, tore the telegram into little bits, and began with deliberation to put on her mantle and hat. "You've got to go through with it," she said to the white face in the glass, and she straightened her small shoulders defiantly. * * * * * They were bound for the Armenian convent. It was a misty day, with shafts of light on the lagoon. The storm had passed, but the water was still rough, and the clouds seemed to be withdrawing their forces only to marshal them again with the darkness. A day of sudden bursts of watery light, of bands of purple distance struck into enchanting beauty by the red or orange of a sail, of a wild salt breath in air that seemed to be still suffused with spray. The Alps were hidden; but what sun there was played faintly on the Euganean hills. "I say, Margaret, at last she does us some credit!" said Ashe, pointing to his wife.