“Naughty Kitty! why this sea air can’t put some more color into your cheeks I don’t understand.”

“I’m not pale!” cried Kitty, pouting.  “Margaret, you do croak about me so!  If you say any more I’ll go and rouge till you’ll be ashamed to go out with me—­there!  Where’s William?”

William opened the door as she spoke, the Gazetta di Venezia in one hand and a telegram in the other.

“Something for you, darling,” he said, holding it out to Kitty.  “Shall I open it?”

“Oh no!” said Kitty, hastily.  “Give it me.  It’s from my Paris woman.”

“Ah—­ha!” laughed Ashe.  “Some extravagance you want to keep to yourself, I’ll be bound.  I’ve a good mind to see!”

And he teasingly held it up above her head.  But she gave a little jump, caught it, and ran off with it to her room.

     “Much regret impossible stop publication.  Fifty copies distributed
     already.  Writing.”

She dropped speechless on the edge of her bed, the crumpled telegram in her hand.  The minutes passed.

“When will you be ready?” said Ashe, tapping at the door.

“Is the gondola there?”

“Waiting at the steps.”

“Five minutes!” Ashe departed.  She rose, tore the telegram into little bits, and began with deliberation to put on her mantle and hat.

“You’ve got to go through with it,” she said to the white face in the glass, and she straightened her small shoulders defiantly.

* * * * *

They were bound for the Armenian convent.  It was a misty day, with shafts of light on the lagoon.  The storm had passed, but the water was still rough, and the clouds seemed to be withdrawing their forces only to marshal them again with the darkness.  A day of sudden bursts of watery light, of bands of purple distance struck into enchanting beauty by the red or orange of a sail, of a wild salt breath in air that seemed to be still suffused with spray.  The Alps were hidden; but what sun there was played faintly on the Euganean hills.

“I say, Margaret, at last she does us some credit!” said Ashe, pointing to his wife.

Margaret started.  Was it rouge?—­or was it the strong air?  Kitty’s languor had entirely disappeared; she was more cheerful and more talkative than she had been at any time since their arrival.  She chattered about the current scandals of Venice—­the mysterious contessa who lived in the palace opposite their own, and only went out, in deep mourning, at night, because she had been the love of a Russian grand-duke, and the grand-duke was dead; of the Carlist pretender and his wife, who had been very popular in Venice until they took it into their heads to require royal honors, and Venice, taking time to think, had lazily decided the game was not worth the candle—­so now the sulky pair went about alone in a fine gondola, turning glassy eyes on their former acquaintance; of the needy marchese who had sold a Titian to the Louvre, and had then found himself boycotted by all his kinsfolk in Venice who were not needy and had no Titians to sell—­all these tales Kitty reeled out at length till the handsome gondoliers marvelled at the little lady’s vivacity and the queer brightness of her eyes.