"Thanks, it isn't worth while. I shall walk." Here came a chorus of protestations, following the tall young woman into the outer drawing-room, through the hall, to the head of the great flight of open-air stairs. Marion had mechanically followed the noisy, squabbling, laughing crew. The departure of this lady suggested to him that he would slip away to his inn. "Do let me have the pleasure of accompanying you," cried one young man after another. "_Do_ take Clarence or Kennedy or Piccinillo, darling," implored Mrs. Vanderwerf. "You can't really walk home alone." "It's not three steps from here," answered the tall one. "And I'm sure it's much more proper for a matron of ever so many years standing to go home alone than accompanied by a lot of fascinating young creatures." "But, dear, you really don't know Venice; suppose you were spoken to! Just think." "Well, beloved friend, I know enough Italian to be able to answer." The tall lady raised one beautifully pencilled eyebrow, slightly, with a contemptuous little look. "Besides, I'm big enough to defend myself, and see, here's an umbrella with a silver knob, or what passes for such in these degenerate days. Nobody will come near that." And she took the weapon from a rack in the hall, where the big seventeenth-century lamp flickered on the portraits of doges in crimson and senators in ermine. "As you like, dearest. I know that wilful must have her own way," sighed Miss Vanderwerf, rising on tiptoe and kissing her on both cheeks. "Mayn't I really accompany you?" repeated the various young men. She shook her head, with the tall, pointed hat on it. "No, you mayn't; good-night, dear friends," and she brandished her umbrella over her head and descended the stairs, which went sheer down into the moonlit yard. The young men bowed. One, with the air of a devotee in St. Mark's, kissed her hand at the bottom of the flight of steps, while the gondolier unlocked the gate. They could see him standing in the moonlight and hear him say earnestly: "I leave for Paris to-morrow; good-night." She did not answer him, but making a gesture with her umbrella to those above, she cried: "Good-night." "Good-night," answered the chorus above the stairs, watching the tall figure pass beneath the gate and into the moonlit square. "Well now," said Miss Vanderwerf, settling herself on her ottoman again, and fanning herself after her exertions in the drawing-room, "there is no denying that she's a strange creature, dear thing." "A fine figure-head cut out of oak, with a good, solid, wooden heart," said the Roumanian Princess. "No, no," exclaimed the lady of the house. "She's just as good as gold,--poor Lady Tal!" II. "Tal?" asked Marion. "Tal. Her name's Atalanta, Lady Atalanta Walkenshaw--but everyone calls her Tal--Lady Tal. She's the daughter of Lord Ossian, you know." "And who is or was Walkenshaw?--is, I presume, otherwise she'd have married somebody else by this time."