“Le jour qui court n’a aucune valeur pour moi, excepte comme la veille du lendemain.  C’est toujours avec le lendemain que mon esprit lutte.”

The phrase pleased him particularly.

He, too, was wrestling with the morrow, though in another sense than Metternich’s.  His mind was alive with projects; an exultant consciousness both of capacity and opportunity possessed him.

“Why, you’ve passed the club, William!” said Kitty.

Ashe awoke with a start, smiled at her, and with a wave of the hand disappeared in a stairway to the right.

Margaret French lingered in a bead-shop to make some purchases.  Kitty walked home alone, and Margaret, whose watchful affection never failed, knew that she preferred it, and let her go her way.

The Ashes had rooms on the first bend of the Grand Canal looking south.  To reach them by land from the Piazza, Kitty had to pass through a series of narrow streets, or calles, broken by campos, or small squares, in which stood churches.  As she passed one of these churches she was attracted by the sound of gay music and by the crowd about the entrance.  Pushing aside the leathern curtain over the door, she found herself in a great rococo nave, which blazed with lights and decorations.  Lines of huge wax candles were fixed in temporary holders along the floor.  The pillars were swathed in rose-colored damask, and the choir was ablaze with flowers, and even more brilliantly lit, if possible, than the rest of the church.

Kitty’s Catholic training told her that an exposition of the Blessed Sacrament was going on.  Mechanically she dipped her fingers into the holy water, she made her genuflection to the altar, and knelt down in one of the back rows.

How rich and sparkling it was—­the lights, the bright colors, the dancing music! “Dolce Sacramento!  Santo Sacramento!” these words of an Italian hymn or litany recurred again and again, with endless iteration.  Kitty’s sensuous, excitable nature was stirred with delight.  Then, suddenly, she remembered her child, and the little face she had seen for the last time in the coffin.  She began to cry softly, hiding her face in her black veil.  An unbearable longing possessed her.  “I shall never have another child,” she thought. “That’s all over.”

Then her thoughts wandered back to the party at Haggart, to the scene on the terrace, and to that rush of excitement which had mastered her, she scarcely knew how or why.  She could still hear the Dean’s voice—­see the lamp wavering above her head.  “What possessed me!  I didn’t care a straw whether the lamp set me on fire—­whether I lived or died.  I wanted to die.”