shameful possibilities.  Could Lightmark have lied to him?  Had not his sudden acquiescence in the painter’s rendering of the thing implied a lack of courage—­been one of those undue indolences, to which he was so prone, rather than any real testimony of his esteem?  Would not a more rigorous inquiry, a little patient investigation into so curious a coincidence, have been the more seemly part, as much for his friend’s sake as for Eve’s, so that this haunting, intolerable doubt might have been for ever put away—­as surely it would have been?  The contrary issue was too horrible for supposition.  And he ended by mocking at himself with a half-sigh for carrying fastidiousness so far, recognising the mundane fitness of the match, and that heroic lovers, such as his tenderness for the damsel would have had, are, after all, rare, perhaps hardly existing out of visions in a somewhat gross world, where the finest ore is not without its considerable alloy.

Two days later, as he sat upon his wonted seat, in lazy enjoyment of the midday sun, a vetturino, heralded far down the road by the jingle of his horse’s bells, deposited a couple at the door whose faces were familiar.  At table d’hote, though he was separated from the new-comers by half a dozen covers, he had leisure to identify them as the Dollonds; and by-and-by the roving, impartial gaze of the Academician’s wife encountering him, he could assure himself that the recognition was mutual.  They came together at the end of dejeuner, and presently, at Mrs. Dollond’s instigation, started for a stroll through the olives towards the old town.

“Are you wintering here?” he asked after a moment, feeling that an affirmative answer would hardly be to his taste.

But Mrs. Dollond, with an upward inclination of her vivacious shoulders, repudiated the notion.  A whim of her own, she explained to Rainham confidentially, as they came abreast in the narrowing path, while Mr. Dollond strolled a little behind, cutting down vagrant weeds absently with his heavy oak stick.

“Hugh wanted a month’s holiday; and I wanted”—­she dropped her voice, glancing over her shoulder with an air of mock mystery—­“yes, Mr. Rainham, you must not be shocked, but I wanted a fortnight at Monte Carlo; and so I may as well tell you that our destination is there.  We came from San Remo this morning, meaning to drive over right away; but this place was so pretty that Hugh insisted on staying.”

Rainham helped her up a difficult terrace, and remarked urbanely that he was in fortune’s way.

She threw him a brilliant smile.

“Ah, Mr. Rainham, if we had only known that you were here! then we might have arranged differently; we could have stayed here pastorally, and driven up to that delightful little place on the hill.  Tell me, how is it called?”

She pointed with her scarlet parasol—­they had emerged now on to the main road—­at a little, turreted town perched far above them on the brow of an olive-crested hill.