“My friend, it will have to come.”

That which had to come, would it come here, in this sheltered place, where the song died away like a thing enticed by the long valley to be kept by the amorous trees?  Mrs. Clarke’s voice had sounded full of inflexible knowledge when she had spoken these words, and she had looked at him with eyes that were full of knowledge.  It was as if those eyes had seen the weeping of many men.

The steamer drew near to the shore.  The bright bustle of the quay was apparent.  Dion made his effort and conquered himself.  But he felt almost afraid of Buyukderer.  In the ugly roar of the Grande Rue he had surely been safer than he would be here in this place which seemed planned for intimate happiness.

The steamer came alongside the pier.

When Dion stepped on to the quay a tall young Englishman with broad shoulders, rather a baby face, and large intelligent blue eyes immediately walked up to him.

“Are you Mr. Dion Leith?”

Dion, startled, was about to say “No” with determined hostility when he remembered Mrs. Clarke.  He had come here; he was, he supposed, going to stay here for some days at least; of course he must face things.

“Yes,” he said gruffly.

In an easy, agreeable manner the stranger explained that he was Cyril Vane, second secretary of the British Embassy, and a friend of Mrs. Clarke’s, and that he had come down at her request to meet Dion, and to tell him that there was a charming room reserved for him at the Belgrad Hotel.

“I’ll walk up with you if you like,” he added, in a casual voice.  “It’s no distance.  That your luggage?”

He put it in the charge of a porter from the hotel.

“I’m over at Therapia just now.  The Ambassador hopes to see you.  He’s a delightful fellow.”

He talked pleasantly, and looked remarkably unobservant till they reached the hotel, where he parted from Dion.

“I dare say I shall see you soon.  Very glad to do anything I can for you.  Mrs. Clarke lies at the Villa Hafiz.  Any one can tell you where it is.”

He walked coolly away in the sun, looking like an immense fair baby in his thin, light-colored clothes.

“Does he know?” thought Dion, looking after him.

Then he went up into his bedroom which looked out upon the sea.  When the luggage had been brought in and the door was shut, he sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the polished uncarpeted floor.

“Why have I come here?  What have I to do here?” he thought.

He missed the uproar of Pera.  It had exercised a species of pressure upon his soul, a deadening influence.