At eleven o’clock Hilary and Peter went home.  Lord Evelyn shook hands with Peter rather affectionately, and said, “Come and see me again soon, dear boy.  Lunch with me at Florian’s to-morrow—­you and your wealthy friend.  Busy sight-seeing, are you?  How banal of you.  Morning in the Duomo, afternoon on the Lido, and the Accademia to fill the spare hours; I know the dear old round.  Never could be worried with it myself; too much else to do.  But one manages to enjoy life even without it, so don’t overwork.  And come and see my toys again by daylight, and try to enthuse a little more over them next time.  You’re too young to be blase.  You’d better read the Gem, to encourage yourself in simple pleasures.  Good-night.  Good-night, Margerison.”

He shook hands with them both again, possibly to make up for Cheriton, who did not shake hands at all, but stood with his own in his pockets, leaning against the wall, his eyes still on Peter’s face.

“Queer manners you have, dear Jim,” was what they heard Lord Evelyn say as they stepped into the Ca’ delle Gemme gondola, that was taking them back to the Rio delle Beccarie.

They swung out into the faintly-shining darkness of the water-road, into which the climbing moon could not look—­a darkness crossed and flecked by the red gleamings of the few gondola and sandolo lights abroad at this hour in the quiet street.  They sent their own red path before them as they softly travelled; and round it the stars flickered and swam, deep down.  Peter could have sworn he heard their thin, tinkling, submerged, funny song, somewhere above or beneath the soft and melodious “Cherie Birri-Bim,” that someone (not Lord Evelyn’s beautifully trained and taciturn poppe) was crooning near at hand.

The velvet darkness of a bridge drowned the stars for a moment; then, with a musical, abrupt cry of “Sta—­i!” they swung round a corner into a narrow way that was silver and green in the face of the climbing moon.

The musically lovely night, the peace of the dim water-ways, the shadowing mystery of the steep, shuttered houses, with here and there a lit door or window ajar, sending a slant of yellow light across the deep green lane full of stars and the moon, the faint crooning of music far off, made a cool marvel of peace for strung nerves.  Peter sat by Hilary in silence, and no longer wanted to ask questions.  In the strange, enveloping wonder of the night, minor wonders died.  What did it matter, anyhow?  Hilary and Venice—­Venice and Hilary—­give them time, and one would explain the other.

It was Hilary who began to talk, and he talked about Cheriton, his nervous voice pitched on a high note of complaint.

“I do intensely dislike that man.  The sort of person I’ve no use for, you know.  So horribly on the spot; such sharp, unsoftened manners.  All the terrible bright braininess of the Yankee combined with the obstreperous energy of the Philistine Briton.  His mother is a young American, about to be married for the third time.  The sort of exciting career one would expect from a parent of the delightful Jim.  I cannot imagine why Lord Evelyn, who is a person of refinement, encourages him.  Really, you know!”