‘O, but I think she was,’ I answered.  ’It was there I told her what had been done; she did not know till then.’

‘She was very dignified—­very striking,’ he murmured.  ‘You were more.’

‘But how do you know what passed between us,’ said I. He then told me that he had seen and heard all.  The dining-room was divided by folding-doors from an inner portion, and he had been sitting in the latter part when we entered the outer, so that our words were distinctly audible.

‘But, dear Alicia,’ he went on, ’I was more impressed by the affection of your apology to her than by anything else.  And do you know that now the conditions have arisen which give me liberty to consider you my affianced?’ I had been expecting this, but yet was not prepared.  I stammered out that we would not discuss it then.

‘Why not?’ said he.  ’Do you know that we may marry here and now?  She has cast off both you and me.’

‘It cannot be,’ said I, firmly.  ’She has not been fairly asked to be your wife in fact—­to repeat the service lawfully; and until that has been done it would be grievous sin in me to accept you.’

I had not noticed where the gondoliers were rowing us.  I suppose he had given them some direction unheard by me, for as I resigned myself in despairing indolence to the motion of the gondola, I perceived that it was taking us up the Canal, and, turning into a side opening near the Palazzo Grimani, drew up at some steps near the end of a large church.

‘Where are we?’ said I.

‘It is the Church of the Frari,’ he replied.  ’We might be married there.  At any rate, let us go inside, and grow calm, and decide what to do.’

When we had entered I found that whether a place to marry in or not, it was one to depress.  The word which Venice speaks most constantly—­decay—­was in a sense accentuated here.  The whole large fabric itself seemed sinking into an earth which was not solid enough to bear it.  Cobwebbed cracks zigzagged the walls, and similar webs clouded the window-panes.  A sickly-sweet smell pervaded the aisles.  After walking about with him a little while in embarrassing silences, divided only by his cursory explanations of the monuments and other objects, and almost fearing he might produce a marriage licence, I went to a door in the south transept which opened into the sacristy.

I glanced through it, towards the small altar at the upper end.  The place was empty save of one figure; and she was kneeling here in front of the beautiful altarpiece by Bellini.  Beautiful though it was she seemed not to see it.  She was weeping and praying as though her heart was broken.  She was my sister Caroline.  I beckoned to Charles, and he came to my side, and looked through the door with me.

‘Speak to her,’ said I.  ‘She will forgive you.’