During her weeks of illness she had lost all count of his movements.  Had he been still writing during the summer for the newspaper which had sent him out?  Had there not been rumors of his being wounded—­or attacked by fever?  Her memory, still vague and weak, struggled painfully with memories it could not recapture.

The Italian paper of that morning—­she had spelled it out for herself at breakfast—­had spoken of a defeat of the insurrectionary forces, and of their withdrawal into the highlands of Bosnia.  There would be a lull in the fighting.  Would he come home?  And all this time had he been the mere spectator and reporter, or fighting, himself?  Her pulses leaped as she thought of him leading down-trodden peasants against the Turk.

But she knew nothing.  Surely during the last few months he had purposely made a mystery of his doings and his whereabouts.  The only sign of him which seemed to have reached England had been that volume of poems—­with those hateful lines!  Her lip quivered.  She was like a weak child—­unable to bear the thought of anything hostile and unkind.

If he had already turned homeward?  Perhaps he would come through Venice!  Anyway, he was not far off.  The day before she and Margaret had made their first visit to the Lido.  And as Kitty stood fronting the Adriatic waves, she had dreamed that somewhere, beyond the farther coast, were those Bosnian mountains in which Geoffrey had passed the winter.

Then she started at her own thoughts, rose—­loathing herself—­drew down her veil, and moved towards the door.

* * * * *

As she reached the leathern curtain which hung over the doorway, a lady in front who was passing through held the curtain aside that Kitty might follow.  Kitty stepped into the street and looked up to say a mechanical “Thank you.”

But the word died on her lips.  She gave a stifled cry, which was echoed by the woman before her.

Both stood motionless, staring at each other.

Kitty recovered herself first.

“It’s not my fault that we’ve met,” she said, panting a little.  “Don’t look at me so—­so unkindly.  I know you don’t want to see me.  Why—­why should we speak at all?  I’m going away.”  And she turned with a gesture of farewell.

Alice Wensleydale laid a detaining hand on Kitty’s arm.

“No! stay a moment.  You are in black.  You look ill.”

Kitty turned towards her.  They had moved on instinctively into the shelter of one of the narrow streets.

“My boy died—­two months ago,” she said, holding herself proudly aloof.

Lady Alice started.

“I hadn’t heard.  I’m very sorry for you.  How old was he?”

“Three years old.”

“Poor baby!” The words were very low and soft.  “My boy—­was fourteen.  But you have other children?”

“No—­and I don’t want them.  They might die, too.”