"So I was--badly. We were defending a _polje_--one of their high mountain valleys, against a Beg and his troops. My left arm"--he pointed to the black sling in which it was still held--"was nearly cut to pieces. However, it is practically well." He took it out of the sling and showed that he could use it. Then his expression changed. He stepped back to the door, and opened it ceremoniously. "Don't, however, let me delay you, Lady Kitty--by my chatter." Kitty's cheeks were crimson. Her momentary yielding vanished in a passion of scorn. What!--he knew that she had seen him before, seen him with that woman--and he dared to play the mere shattered hero, kept in Venice by these crusader's reasons! "Have you another volume on the way?" she asked him, as she advanced. "I read your last." Her smile was the smile of an enemy. He eyed her strangely. "Did you? That was waste of time." "I think you intended I should read it." He hesitated. "Lady Kitty, those things are very far away. I can't defend myself--for they seem wiped out." He had crossed his arms, and was leaning back against the open door, a fine, rugged figure, by no means repentant. Kitty laughed. "You overstate the difference!" "Between the past and the present? What does that mean?" She dropped her eyes a moment, then raised them. "Do you often go to San Lazzaro?" He bowed. "I had a suspicion that the vision at the window--though it was there only an instant--was you! So you saw Mademoiselle Ricci?" His tone was assurance itself. Kitty disdained to answer. Her slight gesture bade him let her pass through; but he ignored it. "I find her kind, Lady Kitty. She listens to me--I get sympathy from her." "And you want sympathy?" Her tone stung him. "As a hungry man wants food --as an artist wants beauty. But I know where I shall _not_ get it." "That is always a gain!" said Kitty, throwing back her little head. "Mr. Cliffe, pray let me bid you good-bye." He suddenly made a step forward. "Lady Kitty!"--his deep-set, imperious eyes searched her face--"I can't restrain myself. Your look--your expression--go to my heart. Laugh at me if you like. It's true. What have you been doing with yourself?" He bent towards her, scrutinizing every delicate feature, and, as it seemed, shaken with agitation. She breathed fast. "Mr. Cliffe, you must know that any sympathy from you to me--is an insult! Kindly let me pass." He, too, flushed deeply. "Insult is a hard word, Lady Kitty. I regret that poem." She swept forward in silence, but he still stood in the way.