in the breeze behind her, like a ship's ensign. Then, as
now, she was the simplest, the most kind-hearted, the most prejudiced
of mortals; an enthusiastic admirer of the arts, and given, as her own
small contribution thereto, to the production of endless water-colour
landscapes, a trifle woolly, indeed, as to outline, and somewhat faulty
as to perspective, but warm in colouring, and highly thought of in
the family. I believe, in fact, that it was chiefly with a view to
the filling of her portfolio that she had persuaded me to take her to
Venice; and, as I am constitutionally indolent, I was willing enough to
spend a few weeks in the city which, of all cities in the world, is
the best adapted for lazy people. We engaged rooms at Danielli's,
and unpacked all our clothes, knowing that we were not likely to make
another move until the heat should drive us away.

The first few days, I remember, were not altogether full of enjoyment
for one of us. My excellent Anne, who has all her brother's virtues,
without his failings, would have scouted the notion of allowing any
dread of physical fatigue to stand between her and the churches and
pictures which she had come all the way from England to admire; and, as
Venice was an old haunt of mine, she very excusably expected me to act
as cicerone to her, and allowed me but little rest between the hours of
breakfast and of the _table d'hote_. At last, however, she conceived the
modest and felicitous idea of making a copy of Titian's "Assumption";
and, having obtained the requisite permission for that purpose, set
to work upon the first of a long series of courageous attempts, all of
which she conscientiously destroyed when in a half-finished state. At
that rate it seemed likely that her days would be fully occupied for
some weeks to come; and I urged her to persevere, and not to allow
herself to be disheartened by a few brilliant failures; and so she
hurried away, early every morning, with her paint-box, her brushes, and
her block, and I was left free to smoke my cigarettes in peace, in front
of my favourite cafe on the Piazza San Marco.

I was sitting there one morning, watching, with half-closed eyes, the
pigeons circling overhead under a cloudless sky, and enjoying the fresh
salt breeze that came across the ruffled water from the Adriatic, when I
was accosted by one of the white-coated Austrian officers by whom Venice
was thronged in those days, and whom I presently recognised as a yo