The rare and wonderful sight of a motor in those days caused a crowd to collect whenever one should arrive or depart.  It was an unheard-of thing that two should visit the city at the same time—­there had only been three in the whole year—­so Halcyone, when she heard the whizz next morning, bounded from her bed and rushed to peep between the green shutters.  Some instinct told her that the noise indicated it was he—­her dear lover—­about to start, and she had the happiness of gazing down upon his upturned face unperceived, as his eyes searched the windows, perhaps in some vague hope of being able to discern which was hers.

And she showered upon him blessings of love and tenderness, and called all the currents of good from the sky and the air, to comfort and protect him and give him strength to go back and keep his word.  And, just as he was starting, a white pigeon flew down and circled round John Derringham’s head—­and he was conscious that at the same moment the sun must have risen above the horizon, for it suddenly gilded the highest towers.  And he passed out of the dark gate into its glory, and took the Siena road, a mighty purpose of strength in his heart.

After a few days of wandering, during which he strove not to let grief or depression master him again, he sent a telegram to Venice to Cecilia Cricklander.  And on that Saturday evening, he walked into her sitting-room with a pale and composed face.

She was seated upon the sofa and arranged with every care, and was looking triumphantly beautiful as she smoked a cigarette.  Her fine eyes had in them all the mocking of the fiend as she greeted him lazily.

“How are you, John?” she said casually—­and puffed rings of smoke, curling up her red lips to do so in a manner that, John Derringham was unpleasantly aware, he would once have found attractive, but that now only filled him with disgust.

“I am well,” he said, “thank you,—­better for the change and the sight of some most interesting things.”

“And I, also,” she responded with provoking glances from under her lids, “am better—­for the change!  I have seen—­a man, since which I seem to be able the better to value your love!”

And she leaned back and laughed with rasping mockery, which galled his ears—­although for some strange reason she could no longer gall his soul.  He felt calm and blandly indifferent to her, like someone acting in a dream.

“I am glad you were, and are, amused,” he said.  He had not made the slightest attempt to kiss her in greeting—­and she had not even held out her hand.

“You are quite rich now, John, aren’t you?” after a short silence she presently asked nonchalantly—­“that is, as you English count riches—­ten or twelve thousand a year.  I suppose it will keep you in comfort.”

He leaned back and smiled one of his old cynical smiles.

“Yes,” he said, “it is extremely rich for me; my personal wants are not great.”