Lady Alice paused.  She still held her half-sister by the arm, towering above her.  She was quite as thin as Kitty, but much taller and more largely built; and, beside the elaborate elegance of Kitty’s mourning, Alice’s black veil and dress had a severe, conventual air.  They were almost the dress of a religious.

“How are you?” she said, gently.  “I often think of you.  Are you happy in your marriage?”

Kitty laughed.

“We’re such a happy lot, aren’t we?  We understand it so well.  Oh, don’t trouble about me.  You know you said you couldn’t have anything to do with me.  Are you staying in Venice?”

“I came in from Treviso for a day or two, to see a friend—­”

“You had better not stay,” said Kitty, hastily.  “Maman is here.  At least, if you don’t want to run across her.”

Lady Alice let go her hold.

“I shall go home to-morrow morning.”

They moved on a few steps in silence, then Alice paused.  Kitty’s delicate face and cloud of hair made a pale, luminous spot in the darkness of the calle.  Alice looked at her with emotion.

“I want to say something to you.”

“Yes?”

“If you are ever in trouble—­if you ever want me, send for me.  Address Treviso, and it will always find me.”

Kitty made no reply.  They had reached a bridge over a side canal, and she stopped, leaning on the parapet.

“Did you hear what I said?” asked her companion.

“Yes.  I’ll remember.  I suppose you think it your duty.  What do you do with yourself?”

“I have two orphan children I bring up.  And there is my lace-school.  It doesn’t get on much; but it occupies me.”

“Are you a Catholic?”

“Yes.”

“Wish I was!” said Kitty.  She hung over the marble balustrade in silence, looking at the crescent moon that was just peering over the eastern palaces of the canal.  “My husband is in politics, you know.  He’s Home Secretary.”

“Yes, I heard.  Do you help him?”

“No—­just the other thing.”

Kitty lifted up a pebble and let it drop into the water.

“I don’t know what you mean by that,” said Alice Wensleydale, coldly.  “If you don’t help him you’ll be sorry—­when it’s too late to be sorry.”

“Oh, I know!” said Kitty.  Then she moved restlessly.  “I must go in.  Good-night.”  She held out her hand.

Lady Alice took it.

“Good-night.  And remember!”

“I sha’n’t want anybody,” said Kitty. “Addio!” She waved her hand, and Alice Wensleydale, whose way lay towards the Piazza, saw her disappear, a small tripping shadow, between the high, close-piled houses.

Kitty was in so much excitement after this conversation that when she reached the Campo San Maurizio, where she should have turned abruptly to the left, she wandered awhile up and down the campo, looking at the gondolas on the Traghetto between it and the Accademia, at the Church of San Maurizio, at the rising moon, and the bright lights in some of the shop windows of the small streets to the north.  The sea-wind was still warm and gusty, and the waves in the Grand Canal beat against the marble feet of its palaces.