ine, though,
isn't it!" Nick asked as they shook hands.

She gazed at him gravely. "Why shouldn't one like things that are out
of one's line?" she answered; and he agreed, with a laugh, that it was
often an incentive.

She continued to fix her grave eyes on him, and after one or two remarks
about the Tiepolos he perceived that she was feeling her way toward a
subject of more personal interest.

"I'm glad to see you alone," she said at length, with an abruptness that
might have seemed awkward had it not been so completely unconscious.
She turned toward a cluster of straw chairs, and signed to Nick to seat
himself beside her.

"I seldom do," she added, with the serious smile that made her heavy
face almost handsome; and she went on, giving him no time to protest: "I
wanted to speak to you--to explain about father's invitation to go with
us to Persia and Turkestan."

"To explain?"

"Yes. You found the letter when you arrived here just after your
marriage, didn't you? You must have thought it odd, our asking you just
then; but we hadn't heard that you were married."

"Oh, I guessed as much: it happened very quietly, and I was remiss about
announcing it, even to old friends."

Lansing frowned. His thoughts had wandered away to the evening when he
had found Mrs. Hicks's letter in the mail awaiting him at Venice.
The day was associated in his mind with the ridiculous and mortifying
episode of the cigars--the expensive cigars that Susy had wanted to
carry away from Strefford's villa. Their brief exchange of views on the
subject had left the first blur on the perfect surface of his happiness,
and he still felt an uncomfortable heat at the remembrance. For a few
hours the prospect of life with Susy had seemed unendurable; and it was
just at that moment that he had found the letter from Mrs. Hicks, with
its almost irresistible invitation. If only her daughter had known how
nearly he had accepted it!

"It was a dreadful temptation," he said, smiling.

"To go with us? Then why--?"

"Oh, everything's different now: I've got to stick to my writing."

Miss Hicks still bent on him the same unblinking scrutiny. "Does that
mean that you're going to give up your real work?"

"My real work--archaeology?" He smiled again to hide a twitch of regret.
"Why, I'm afraid it hardly produces a living wage; and I've got to think
of that." He coloured suddenly, as if suspecting that Miss Hicks might
consider the avowal an opening for