g a man, who called
himself an "illusionist," displaying a woman's figure suspended
apparently in mid-air. He took a wand and passed it over, under, around
the woman to show that she was unattached to anything, that she did not
rest upon anything. Viola thought that she was like that woman. She was
not embittered. She was not even crushed. Her impulse of pity, when she
understood what Robin was feeling, had been absolutely genuine. It had
rushed upon her. It remained with her. But now it was far less definite,
and embraced not only Robin but surely other men whom she had never
known or even seen. They could not help themselves. It was not their
fault. They were made in a certain way. They were governed. It seemed to
her that she looked out vaguely over a world of slaves, the serfs of God
who have never been emancipated. She had no hope. But just then she had
no fear. The past did not ebb from her, nor did the future steal towards
her. The tides were stilled. The pulses of life were stopped. Everything
was wrapped in a cold, grey calm. She had never been a very thoughtful
woman. She had not had much time for thought. That is what she herself
would probably have said. Seldom had she puzzled her head over the
mysteries of existence. Even now, when she confronted the great mystery
of her own, she did not think very definitely. Before Robin came her
mind had been in a fever. Now that he was gone the fever had gone with
him. Would it ever return? She did not ask or wonder.

The night fell and the servant came to summon her to dinner. She shook
her head.

"The signora will not eat anything?"

"No, thank you."

She took her arms from the wall and looked at the man.

"Could I have the boat?"

"The signora wishes to go on the lake?"

"Yes."

"I will tell Paolo."

Two or three minutes later the boy who had sung came to say that the
boat was ready.

Lady Holme fetched a cloak, and went down the dark stone staircase
between the lichen-covered walls to the tall iron gate. The boat was
lying by the outer steps. She got in and Paolo took the oars.

"Where does the signora wish to go?"

"Anywhere out on the lake."

He pushed off. Soon the noise of the waterfall behind Casa Felice died
away, the spectral facade faded and only the plash of the oars and the
tinkle of fishermen's bells above the nets, floating here and there in
the lake, were audible. The distant lights of mountain villages gleamed
along the shores, and th