The poet raised his hand and pointed to the convent pile, towering under the moonlight.  Diana’s eyes filled with tears.  Sir James had come back to the group, his face, with its dignified and strenuous lines, bent—­half perplexed, half frowning—­on the speaker.  And the magic of the Umbrian night stole upon each quickened pulse.

But presently, when the group had broken up and Ferrier was once more strolling beside Diana, he said to her: 

“A fine prophecy!  But I had a letter this morning from another Italian writer.  It contains the following passage:  ’The soul of this nation is dead.  The old enthusiasms are gone.  We have the most selfish, the most cynical bourgeoisie in Europe.  Happy the men of 1860!  They had some illusions left—­religion, monarchy, country.  We too have men who would give themselves—­if they could.  But to what?  No one wants them any more—­nessuno li vuole piu!’ Well, there are the two.  Which will you believe?”

“The poet!” said Diana, in a low faltering voice.  But it was no cry of triumphant faith.  It was the typical cry of our generation before the closed door that openeth not.

* * * * *

“That was good,” said Marion Vincent, as the last of the party disappeared through the terrace window, and she and Diana were left alone—­“but this is better.”

She drew Diana toward her, kissed her, and smiled at her.  But the smile wrung Diana’s heart.

“Why have you been so ill?—­and I never knew!” She wrapped a shawl round her friend, and, holding her hands, gazed into her face.

“It was all so hurried—­there was so little time to think or remember.  But now there is time.”

“Now you are going to rest?—­and get well?”

Marion smiled again.

“I shall have holiday for a few months—­then rest.”

“You won’t live any more in the East End?  You’ll come to me—­in the country?” said Diana, eagerly.

“Perhaps!  But I want to see all I can in my holiday—­before I rest!  All my life I have lived in London.  There has been nothing to see—­but squalor.  Do you know that I have lived next door to a fried-fish shop for twelve years?  But now—­think!—­I am in Italy—­and we are going to the Alps—­and we shall stay on Lake Como—­and—­and there is no end to our plans—­if only my holiday is long enough.”

What a ghost face!—­and what shining eyes!

“Oh, but make it long enough!” pleaded Diana, laying one of the emaciated hands against her cheek, and smitten by a vague terror.

“That does not depend on me,” said Marion, slowly.

“Marion,” cried Diana, “tell me what you mean!”

Marion hesitated a moment, then said, quietly: 

“Promise, dear, to take it quite simply—­just as I tell it.  I am so happy.  There was an operation—­six weeks ago.  It was quite successful—­I have no pain.  The doctors give me seven or eight months.  Then my enemy will come back—­and my rest with him.”