mself--and life's most intimate and tender
things--in these days, did he probe his own consciousness much
concerning them? Probably not. Was he aware that, when all was said and
done, in spite of her misdoings, in spite of his passion of anxiety
during her illness, in spite of the pity and affection of his daily
attitude, Kitty occupied, in truth, much less of his mind than she had
ever yet occupied?--that a certain magic--primal, incommunicable--had
ceased to clothe her image in his thoughts?

Again--probably not. For these slow changes in a man's inmost
personality are like the ebb and flow of summer tides over estuary
sands. Silent, the main creeps in, or out; and while we dream, the great
basin fills, and the fishing-boats come in--or the gentle, pitiless
waters draw back into the bosom of ocean, and the sea-birds run over the
wide, untenanted flats.

* * * * *

They landed at the Piazzetta as the lamps were being lit. The soft
October darkness was falling fast, and on the ledges of St. Mark's and
the Ducal Palace the pigeons had begun to roost. An animated crowd was
walking up and down in the Piazza where a band was playing; and on the
golden horses of St. Mark's there shone a pale and mystical light, the
last reflection from the western sky. Under the colonnades the jewellers
and glass-shops blazed and sparkled, and the warm sea-wind fluttered
the Italian flags on the great flag-staffs that but so recently had
borne the Austrian eagle.

Ashe walked with his head thrown back, thinking absently, in this centre
of Venice, of English politics, and of a phrase of Metternich's he had
come across in a volume of memoirs he had been lately reading on the
journey:

"Le jour qui court n'a aucune valeur pour moi, excepte comme la veille
du lendemain. C'est toujours avec le lendemain que mon esprit lutte."

The phrase pleased him particularly.

He, too, was wrestling with the morrow, though in another sense than
Metternich's. His mind was alive with projects; an exultant
consciousness both of capacity and opportunity possessed him.

"Why, you've passed the club, William!" said Kitty.

Ashe awoke with a start, smiled at her, and with a wave of the hand
disappeared in a stairway to the right.

Margaret French lingered in a bead-shop to make some purchases. Kitty
walked home alone, and Margaret, whose watchful affection never failed,
knew that she preferred it, and let her go her way.