ming by the side of my gondola.

"I meant nothing else," laughed the statue in the water, the moon
shining into his eyes and on his noble white throat as he swam. "Now,
Miss Destrey, show me exactly how you stood when you dropped your bag,
and I think I can promise that you shall have it again in a few
minutes."

"If I'd dreamed of this I wouldn't have let you do it," I said.

"Why not? I'm awfully happy, and the water feels like warm silk. Is
this where you dropped it? Look out for a little splash, please. I'm
going down."

With that he disappeared under the canal, and stayed down so long that I
began to be frightened. It seemed impossible that any human being could
hold his breath for so many minutes; but just as my anxiety reached
boiling point, up he came, dripping, laughing, his short hair in wet
rings on his forehead, and in his hand, triumphantly held up, the gold
bag.

"I knew where to grope for it, and I felt it almost the first thing," he
said. "Please forgive my wet fingers."

"Why, there's something red on the gold. It's blood!" I stammered,
forgetting to thank him.

"Is there? What a bore! But it's nothing. I grazed the skin of my hands
a little, grubbing about among the stones down there, that's all."

"It's a great deal," I said. "I can't bear to think you've been hurt for
me."

"Why, I don't even feel it," said the Chauffeulier. "It's the bag that
suffers. But you can have it washed."

Yes, I could have it washed. Yet, somehow, it would seem almost
sacrilegious. I made up my mind without saying a word, that I would not
have the bag washed. I would keep it exactly as it was, put sacredly
away in some box, in memory of this night.

XXI

A CHAPTER OF STRANGE SPELLS

"Never since Anne Boleyn has a woman so lost her head over a man with a
title as Mamma over Prince Dalmar-Kalm," said Beechy, after our week at
Venice was half spent. And I wished that, in fair exchange, he would
lose his over Aunt Kathryn instead of wasting time on me, and casting
his shadow on beautiful days.

Roses and lilies appeared on my writing-desk; they were from him.
Specimens of Venetian sweets (crystallized fruits stuck on sticks, like
fat martyrs) adorned large platters on the table by the window--gifts
from the Prince. If I admired the little gargoylish sea-horses, or the
foolish shell ornaments at the Lido, I was sure to find some when I came
home. And the man hinted in whispers that the attentions of th