on I was wondering what to do with
them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under
the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better
that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that
they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something
tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It
isn't exactly that a man has died."

Something warned Lucy that she must stop him.

"It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is."

"Mr. Emerson--"

He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some
abstract quest.

"I want to ask you something before we go in."

They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows
against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at
times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have
suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying:

"I have behaved ridiculously."

He was following his own thoughts.

"I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what
came over me."

"I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude
repelled him.

"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."

"Oh, all right."

"And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are
gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?"

"I'm afraid I don't."

"I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?"

"Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right."

"Thank you so much. And would you--"

She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below
them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs
into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was
hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by
idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might
even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts,
like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say
to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence
for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in
that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it,
just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought
in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something
ha