Her head sank a little; her heavy eyelids dropped slowly; she heaved a long low weary sigh.  Francis put her arm in his, and made an attempt to rouse her.

’Come, Countess, you are weary and over-wrought.  We have had enough talking to-night.  Let me see you safe back to your hotel.  Is it far from here?’

She started when he moved, and obliged her to move with him, as if he had suddenly awakened her out of a deep sleep.

‘Not far,’ she said faintly.  ’The old hotel on the quay.  My mind’s in a strange state; I have forgotten the name.’

‘Danieli’s?’

‘Yes!’

He led her on slowly.  She accompanied him in silence as far as the end of the Piazzetta.  There, when the full view of the moonlit Lagoon revealed itself, she stopped him as he turned towards the Riva degli Schiavoni.  ’I have something to ask you.  I want to wait and think.’

She recovered her lost idea, after a long pause.

‘Are you going to sleep in the room to-night?’ she asked.

He told her that another traveller was in possession of the room that night.  ‘But the manager has reserved it for me to-morrow,’ he added, ‘if I wish to have it.’

‘No,’ she said.  ‘You must give it up.’

‘To whom?’

‘To me!’

He started.  ’After what I have told you, do you really wish to sleep in that room to-morrow night?’

‘I must sleep in it.’

‘Are you not afraid?’

‘I am horribly afraid.’

’So I should have thought, after what I have observed in you to-night.  Why should you take the room?  You are not obliged to occupy it, unless you like.’

‘I was not obliged to go to Venice, when I left America,’ she answered. 
‘And yet I came here.  I must take the room, and keep the room, until—­’
She broke off at those words.  ‘Never mind the rest,’ she said. 
‘It doesn’t interest you.’

It was useless to dispute with her.  Francis changed the subject.  ‘We can do nothing to-night,’ he said.  ’I will call on you to-morrow morning, and hear what you think of it then.’

They moved on again to the hotel.  As they approached the door,
Francis asked if she was staying in Venice under her own name.

She shook her head.  ’As your brother’s widow, I am known here.  As Countess Narona, I am known here.  I want to be unknown, this time, to strangers in Venice; I am travelling under a common English name.’  She hesitated, and stood still.  ‘What has come to me?’ she muttered to herself.  ’Some things I remember; and some I forget.  I forgot Danieli’s—­and now I forget my English name.’  She drew him hurriedly into the hall of the hotel, on the wall of which hung a list of visitors’ names.  Running her finger slowly down the list, she pointed to the English name that she had assumed:—­’Mrs. James.’

‘Remember that when you call to-morrow,’ she said.  ’My head is heavy.  Good night.’