Which was all sophistical and nonsensical; and she knew it, for there was a mischievous little gleam in her eye as she spoke.  But none the less, shutting her ears to the unsympathetic Stephanie, did she continue to show herself alone in public with the beautiful youth.  She had thrown her crown over the windmills for a few happy days; for a few happy days she was feeding her starved nature, drinking in her fill of beauty and colour and the joy of life.  And the pair, thus forcibly thrown together, drifted through the narrow canals beneath the old crumbling palaces, side by side, and hand in hand while Giacomo and Felipe, disregarded automata, bent to their oars.

One afternoon, one mellow and memorable afternoon, they were returning from Murano.  Not a breath of wind ruffled the lagoon.  The islands in their spring verdure slumbered peacefully.  Far away the shipping in the bacino lay still like enchanted craft.  Only a steamer or two, and here and there the black line of a gondola with its standing, solitary rower, broke the immobility of things.  And Venice, russet and rose and grey, brooded in the sunset, a city of dreams.  They murmured words of wonder and regret.  Instinctively they drew near and their shoulders touched.  Their clasp of fingers tightened and their breath came quickly, and for a long time they were silent.  Then at last he whispered her name, in the old foolish and inevitable way.  And she turned her face to him, and met his eyes and said “Paul,” and her lips as she said it seemed to speak a kiss.  And all the earth was wrapped in glory too overwhelming for speech.

It was only when they entered the Grand Canal and drew up by the striped posts of the palazzo that she said:  “I have those Roman people and the Heatherfields coming to dinner.  I wish I hadn’t.”  She sighed.  “Would you care to come?”

He smiled into her eyes.  “No, my Princess, not to-night.  I should do silly things.  To-night I will go and talk to the moon.  To-morrow, when can I come?”

“Early.  As early as you like.”

And Paul went away and talked to the moon, and the next morning, his heart tumultuous, presented himself at the palazzo.  He was shown into the stiff Italian drawing-room, with its great Venetian glass chandelier, its heavy picture-hung walls, its Empire furniture covered in yellow silk.  Presently the door opened and she entered, girlish in blouse and skirt, fresh as the morning.  “Bon jour, Paul.  I’ve not had time to put on my hat, but—­”

She did not end, for he strode toward her and with a little laugh of triumph took her in his arms and kissed her.  And so what had to be came to pass.

CHAPTER XVI

I love you too much, my Sophie, to be called the Princess Zobraska’s husband.”

“And I love you too much, dear, to wish to be called anything else than Paul Savelli’s wife.”