me all she knew.  You know her old friendship for us, William?  She has many weaknesses, and of late I have thought her much changed, grown very hard and bitter.  But she is always very loyal to you and me—­and I could not help betraying my feeling when Kitty’s note reached me.  Mary came and put her arms round me, and I said to her, ’Oh, Mary, thank God!—­she’s broken with him!  She’s going to Verona to-night on the way home!’ And she kissed me and seemed so glad.  And I was very grateful to her for her sympathy, for I am beginning to feel my age, and this has been rather a strain.  But I oughtn’t to have told her!—­or anybody!  I see, of course, what Kitty meant.  It is incredible that Mary should breathe a word—­or if she did that it should reach that man.  But I have just sent her a note to Danieli’s to warn her in the strongest way.

“Beloved son—­if, indeed, we save her—­we will be very good to her, you and I. We will remember her bringing up and her inheritance.  I will be more loving—­more like Christ.  I hope He will forgive me for my harshness in the past....  My William!—­I love you so!  God be merciful to you and to your poor Kitty!”

* * * * *

“Will the signora have her dinner outside or in the salle-a-manger?"

The question was addressed to Kitty by a little Italian waiter belonging to the Albergo San Zeno at Verona, who stood bent before her, his white napkin under his arm.

“Out here, please—­and for my maid also.”

The speaker moved wearily towards the low wall which bounded the foaming Adige, and looked across the river.  Far away the Alps that look down on Garda glistened under the stars; the citadel on its hill, the houses across the river were alive with lights; to the left the great mediaeval bridge rose, a dark, ponderous mass, above the torrents of the Adige.  Overhead, the little outside restaurant was roofed with twining vine-stems from which the leaves had fallen; colored lights twinkled among them and on the white tables underneath.  The night was mild and still, and a veiled moon was just rising over the town of Juliet.

“Blanche!”

“Yes, my lady?”

“Bring a chair, Blanchie, and come and sit by me.”

The little maid did as she was told, and Kitty slipped her hand into hers with a long sigh.

“Are you very tired, my lady?”

“Yes—­but don’t talk!”

The two sat silent, clinging to each other.

A step on the cobble-stones disturbed them.  Blanche looked up, and saw a gentleman issuing from a lane which connected the narrow quay whereon stood the old Albergo San Zeno with one of the main streets of Verona.

There was a cry from Kitty.  The stranger paused—­looked—­advanced.  The little maid rose, half fierce, half frightened.

“Go, Blanche, go!” said Kitty, panting; “go back into the hotel.”

“Not unless your ladyship wishes me to leave you,” said the girl, firmly.