“It is all to the good that you can be so wise,” answered Mark quietly.  “I admire your splendid patience and courage, Mrs. Pendean, and—­and—­would do for you, and will do, everything that wit of man can.”

“Thank you, kind friend,” she replied.  Then she shook his hand and bade him farewell.

“Will you let me know if you leave here?” he asked.

“Yes—­since you wish it.”

They parted and he ran down the steps, scarcely seeing them.  He felt that he already loved this woman with his whole soul.  The tremendous emotion swept him, while reason and common sense protested.

Mark leaped aboard the waiting motor boat and they were soon speeding back to Dartmouth, while Doria spoke eagerly.  But the passenger felt little disposed to gratify the Italian’s curiosity.  Instead he asked him a few questions respecting himself and found that the other delighted to discuss his own affairs.  Doria revealed a southern levity and self-satisfaction that furnished Brendon with something to think about before the launch ran to the landing-stage at Dartmouth.

“How comes it you are not back in your own country, now the war is over?” he asked Doria.

“It is because the war is over that I have left my own country, signor,” answered Giuseppe.  “I fought against Austria on the sea; but now—­now Italy is an unhappy place—­no home for heroes at present.  I am not a common man.  I have a great ancestry—­the Doria of Dolceaqua in the Alpes Maritimes.  You have heard of the Doria?”

“I’m afraid not—­history isn’t my strong suit.”

“On the banks of the River Nervia the Doria had their mighty castle and ruled the land of Dolceaqua.  A fighting people.  There was a Doria who slew the Prince of Monaco.  But great families—­they are like nations—­their history is a sand hill in the hour-glass of time.  They arise and crumble by the process of their own development.  Si!  Time gives the hour-glass a shake and they are gone—­to the last grain.  I am the last grain.  We sank and sank till only I remain.  My father was a cab driver at Bordighera.  He died in the war and my mother, too, is dead.  I have no brothers, but one sister.  She disgraced herself and is, I hope, now dead also.  I know her not.  So I am left, and the fate of that so mighty family lies with me alone—­a family that once reigned as sovereign princes.”

Brendon was sitting beside the boatman in the bows of the launch, and he could not but admire the Italian’s amazing good looks.  Moreover there were mind and ambition revealed in him, coupled with a frank cynicism which appeared in a moment.

“Families have hung on a thread like that sometimes,” said Mark; “the thread of a solitary life.  Perhaps you are born to revive the fortunes of your race, Doria?”

“There is no ‘perhaps.’  I am.  I have a good demon who talks to me sometimes.  I am born for great deeds.  I am very handsome—­that was needful; I am very clever—­that, too, was needful.  There is only one thing that stands between me and the ruined castle of my race at Dolceaqua—­only one thing.  And that is in the world waiting for me.”