d as he got out his bathing trunks,
and took his bath-sheet on his arm, lines from Verhaeren began again to
haunt him:

"_Je m'habille des logues de mes jours
Et le baton de mon orgeuil il plie,
Mes pieds dites commie ils sont lourds
De me porter, de me trainer toujours
Au long le siecle de ma vie_...."

Down to the sparkling hem of the lake the sombre voice accompanied him.
He stood in a sort of muse, his bare feet wincing from the hot pebbles;
then, letting the ripples lave them, he went on musing. And in a sort of
dark flare the joyous scene vanished, and he saw smoke-blurred, autumnal
London gape before him. Here, too, Verhaeren whispered with gloomy
sympathy:

"_Gares de suie et de fumee ou du gaz pleure
Ses spleens d'argent lointain vers des chemins d'eclair,
Ou des betes d'ennui baillent a l'heure
Dolente immensement qui tente Westminster._"

He had a flash of grim amusement at the idea of "Westminster" used by
the Belgian poet to rhyme with "eclair" ... then he flung himself
forward into the glittering blue, and began to swim.... After all it was
good to be alive no matter what the odds.... Perhaps the knowledge that
this was his last swim for many months whetted his appreciation, but he
had never felt more jocund a delight in the elastic clasp and purl of
living water upon his naked flesh....

* * * * *

Sophy went out on the little terrace before the hotel to wait for his
return. She had ordered luncheon served there, and a _cameriere_ was
already throwing a fresh tablecloth over one of the iron tables. A late
tea-rose nodded from the terrace railing in the languid wind. She went
and leaned near it, watching her husband's splendid figure against the
flickering, sunlit blue, as he stood those few moments musing, before he
plunged forward for his swim. The late, wistful rose, its petals
slightly shrivelled at the edges, kept tapping softly against her hand.
She stroked it lightly with her finger tips. The Padrone bustled up.

"_Con permesso--con permesso, signora_," he smiled, unctuously affable.
And with a table-knife he detached the rose and presented it, bowing
low.

"_Grazie_," murmured Sophy. She was sorry that the poor, passee rose had
been beheaded for her, but very kindly she fastened it in her belt.
Then, leaning on the low railing, she watched the fine rhythm of Cecil's
arm, as it rose and fell, shearing the blue water. He was only a few
yar