“And so you are going to Venice?” Then, after a long pause:  “Will you mind if I tell you of an adventure of my own,—­one still most vivid in my memory?  It happened near there many years ago.”  He picked up his shawl, pushed our chairs close to the overhanging life-boat, and continued:  “I had begun my professional career, and had gone abroad to study the hospital system in Europe.  The revolution in Poland—­the revolt of ’62—­had made traveling in northern Europe uncomfortable, if not dangerous, for foreigners, even with the most authentic of passports, and so I had spent the summer in Italy.  One morning, early in the autumn, I bade good-by to my gondolier at the water-steps of the railroad station, and bought a ticket for Vienna.  An important letter required my immediate presence in Berlin.

“On entering the train I found the carriage occupied by two persons:  a lady, richly dressed, but in deep mourning and heavily veiled; and a man, dark and smooth-faced, wearing a high silk hat.  Raising my cap, I placed my umbrella and smaller traps under the seat, and hung my bundle of traveling shawls in the rack overhead.  The lady returned my salutation gravely, lifting her veil and making room for my bundles.  The dark man’s only response was a formal touching of his hat-brim with his forefinger.

“The lady interested me instantly.  She was perhaps twenty-five years of age, graceful, and of distinguished bearing.  Her hair was jet-black, brushed straight back from her temples, her complexion a rich olive, her teeth pure white.  Her lashes were long, and opened and shut with a slow, fan-like movement, shading a pair of deep blue eyes, which shone with that peculiar light only seen when quick tears lie hidden under half-closed lids.  Her figure was rounded and full, and her hands exquisitely modeled.  Her dress, while of the richest material, was perfectly plain, with a broad white collar and cuffs like those of a nun.  She wore no jewels of any kind.  I judged her to be a woman of some distinction,—­an Italian or Hungarian, perhaps.

“When the train started, the dark man, who had remained standing, touched his hat to me, raised it to the lady, and disappeared.  Her only acknowledgment was a slight inclination of the head.  A polite stranger, no doubt, I thought, who prefers the smoker.  When the train stopped for luncheon, I noticed that the lady did not leave the carriage, and on my return I found her still seated, looking listlessly out of the window, her head upon her hand.

“‘Pardon me, madame,’ I said in French, ’but unless you travel some distance this is the last station where you can get anything to eat.’

“She started, and looked about helplessly.  ’I am not hungry.  I cannot eat—­but I suppose I should.’

“‘Permit me;’ and I sprang from the carriage, and caught a waiter with a tray before the guard reclosed the doors.  She drank the coffee, tasted the fruit, thanking me in a low, sweet voice, and said:—­