“I am more sure than ever, that I should like Phelim,” said the cardinal.  “Why do you not have him on?”

“He’s six foot three,” explained Miss O’Kelly; “the yacht wouldn’t fit him.  He couldn’t stand up, below.  There is six foot seven between decks, but the electric lights project four inches.  Then the beds—­there isn’t one more than six foot six.  We had Phelim on board and tried him.  He stayed one night.  ‘Aunt Molly,’ he said, in the mornin’, ’Nora has a beautiful boat, plenty of towels, and a good cook.  I should like to go with you, but I’m scared.  I kept awake last night, with my knees drawn up, and all went well, but if ever I fall asleep and straighten out, I’ll kick the rudder out of her.’  We couldn’t have Phelim aboard, your imminence; he’d cancel the marine insurance.”

While Miss O’Kelly had been running on, the cardinal had been politely listening.  He had also been discreetly observing.  He had the attribute of politicians and ecclesiastics—­he could exercise all his senses together.  While he was smiling at Miss O’Kelly he had seen Lady Nora take from the gold vase one of the scarlet roses, press it, for an instant, to her lips and then, under cover of the table, pass it to the earl.  He had seen the earl slowly lift the rose to his face, feigning to scent it while he kissed it.  He had seen quick glances, quivering lips that half-whispered, half-kissed; he had seen the wireless telegraphy of love flashing messages which youth thinks are in cipher, known only to the sender and the recipient; and he, while laughing, had tapped the wire and read the correspondence.

“It is all over,” he said to himself.  “They are in love.  The little naked boy with the bow has hit them both.”

Promptly at nine, Pietro announced the barca.  The cardinal made his adieus.  “My lord,” he said to the earl, “if you are for the shore, I should be honored by your company.”

“Thank you,” said the earl, “but I ordered my gondola at ten.”

Lady Nora and the earl stood watching the cardinal’s lantern as it sped toward Venice.  It was soon lost in the night.  Lady Nora’s hand rested upon the rail.  The earl covered it with his own.  She did not move.

“Have you bought the cup, Bobby,” she asked.

“Not yet,” he answered, “but I shall have it.  The treasury is closed for the annual cleaning.”

“When you bring it,” she said, “you will find me here.  I should like you to give it me on the Tara.  There is your gondola light.  Aunt Molly seems to be asleep in her chair.  You need not wake her to say good-night.”

“I sha’n’t,” said the earl.

Her hand still rested upon the rail—­his hand still covered hers.  She was gazing across the harbor at the countless lights of Venice.  The warm night breeze from the lagoon dimpled the waters of the harbor until the reflected lights began to tremble.  There was no sound, save the tinkle of the water against the side and the faint cry of a gondolier, in the distance.