‘The question is a perfectly natural one on your part,’ she said, with the impenetrably ironical manner which she could assume on certain occasions.  ’As a native of horse-racing England, you belong to a nation of gamblers.  My brother died no extraordinary death, Mr. Westwick.  He sank, with many other unfortunate people, under a fever prevalent in a Western city which we happened to visit.  The calamity of his loss made the United States unendurable to me.  I left by the first steamer that sailed from New York—­a French vessel which brought me to Havre.  I continued my lonely journey to the South of France.  And then I went on to Venice.’

‘What does all this matter to me?’ Francis thought to himself.  She paused, evidently expecting him to say something.  ’So you have come to Venice?’ he said carelessly.  ‘Why?’

‘Because I couldn’t help it,’ she answered.

Francis looked at her with cynical curiosity.  ‘That sounds odd,’ he remarked.  ‘Why couldn’t you help it?’

‘Women are accustomed to act on impulse,’ she explained.  ’Suppose we say that an impulse has directed my journey?  And yet, this is the last place in the world that I wish to find myself in.  Associations that I detest are connected with it in my mind.  If I had a will of my own, I would never see it again.  I hate Venice.  As you see, however, I am here.  When did you meet with such an unreasonable woman before?  Never, I am sure!’ She stopped, eyed him for a moment, and suddenly altered her tone.  ‘When is Miss Agnes Lockwood expected to be in Venice?’ she asked.

It was not easy to throw Francis off his balance, but that extraordinary question did it.  ’How the devil did you know that Miss Lockwood was coming to Venice?’ he exclaimed.

She laughed—­a bitter mocking laugh.  ‘Say, I guessed it!’

Something in her tone, or perhaps something in the audacious defiance of her eyes as they rested on him, roused the quick temper that was in Francis Warwick.  ‘Lady Montbarry—!’ he began.

‘Stop there!’ she interposed.  ’Your brother Stephen’s wife calls herself Lady Montbarry now.  I share my title with no woman.  Call me by my name before I committed the fatal mistake of marrying your brother.  Address me, if you please, as Countess Narona.’

‘Countess Narona,’ Francis resumed, ’if your object in claiming my acquaintance is to mystify me, you have come to the wrong man.  Speak plainly, or permit me to wish you good evening.’

‘If your object is to keep Miss Lockwood’s arrival in Venice a secret,’ she retorted, ’speak plainly, Mr. Westwick, on your side, and say so.’

Her intention was evidently to irritate him; and she succeeded.  ‘Nonsense!’ he broke out petulantly.  ’My brother’s travelling arrangements are secrets to nobody.  He brings Miss Lockwood here, with Lady Montbarry and the children.  As you seem so well informed, perhaps you know why she is coming to Venice?’