and he still repeated again and again: "To-morrow,
to-morrow." A chill, indefinable sense of something not quite the same
as it had been, of an invisible veil falling between himself and
Arthur, kept him silent, until, on the last evening of their holiday, he
realized suddenly that he must speak now if he would speak at all. They
were stopping for the night at Lugano, and were to start for Pisa next
morning. He would at least find out how far his darling had been drawn
into the fatal quicksand of Italian politics.

"The rain has stopped, carino," he said after sunset; "and this is the
only chance we shall have to see the lake. Come out; I want to have a
talk with you."

They walked along the water's edge to a quiet spot and sat down on a
low stone wall. Close beside them grew a rose-bush, covered with scarlet
hips; one or two belated clusters of creamy blossom still hung from an
upper branch, swaying mournfully and heavy with raindrops. On the green
surface of the lake a little boat, with white wings faintly fluttering,
rocked in the dewy breeze. It looked as light and frail as a tuft of
silvery dandelion seed flung upon the water. High up on Monte Salvatore
the window of some shepherd's hut opened a golden eye. The roses hung
their heads and dreamed under the still September clouds, and the water
plashed and murmured softly among the pebbles of the shore.

"This will be my only chance of a quiet talk with you for a long time,"
Montanelli began. "You will go back to your college work and friends;
and I, too, shall be very busy this winter. I want to understand quite
clearly what our position as regards each other is to be; and so, if
you----" He stopped for a moment and then continued more slowly: "If you
feel that you can still trust me as you used to do, I want you to tell
me more definitely than that night in the seminary garden, how far you
have gone."

Arthur looked out across the water, listened quietly, and said nothing.

"I want to know, if you will tell me," Montanelli went on; "whether you
have bound yourself by a vow, or--in any way."

"There is nothing to tell, dear Padre; I have not bound myself, but I am
bound."

"I don't understand------"

"What is the use of vows? They are not what binds people. If you feel
in a certain way about a thing, that binds you to it; if you don't feel
that way, nothing else can bind you."

"Do you mean, then, that this thing--this--feeling is quite irrevocable?
Arthu