nto your book?"

"Certainly."

"What kind of things did you say?"

"The worst I could!"

"Ah! How shall I get a copy?" said Cliffe, musing.

She made no answer, but she was conscious of a sudden movement--was it
of terror? At the bottom of her soul was she, indeed, afraid of the man
beside her?

"By-the-way," he resumed, "you promised to tell me your news of this
morning. But you haven't told me a word!"

She turned away. She had gathered her furs around her, and her face was
almost hidden by them.

"Nothing is settled," she said, in a cold, reluctant voice.

"Which means that you won't tell me anything more?"

She was silent. Her lip had a proud line which piqued him.

"You think I am not worthy to know?"

Her eye gleamed.

"What does it matter to you?"

"Oh, nothing! I should have been glad to hear that all was well, and
Ashe's mind at rest about his prospects."

"His prospects!" she repeated, with a scorn which stung. "How <i>dare</i> we
mention his name here at all?"

Cliffe reddened.

"I dare," he said, calmly.

Kitty looked at him--a quivering defiance in face and frame; then bent
forward.

"Would you like to know--who is the best--the noblest--the
handsomest--the most generous--the most delightful man I have ever met?"

Each word came out winged and charged with a strange intensity of
passion.

"Do I?" said Cliffe, raising his eyebrows--"do I want to know?"

Her look held him.

"My husband, William Ashe!"

And she fell back, flushed and breathless, like one who throws out a
rebel and challenging flag.

Cliffe was silent a moment, observing her.

"Strange!" he said, at last. "It is only when you are miserable you are
kind. I could wish you miserable again, <i>cherie</i>."

Tone and look broke into a sombre wildness before which she shrank. Her
own violence passed away. She leaned over the side of the boat,
struggling with tears.

"Then you have your wish," was her muffled answer.

The three bronzed Venetians, a father and two sons, who were working the
<i>bragozzo</i> glanced curiously at the pair. They were persuaded that these
charterers of their boat were lovers flying from observation, and the
unknown tongue did but stimulate guessing.

Cliffe raised himself impatiently.

They were nearing a point where the line of <i>murazzi</i> they had been
following--low breakwaters of great strength--swept away from them
outward and eastward towards a distant opening. On the othe