“What, here also?” said he, in a low voice.

“Every one; the master included.  It is with him I have to do this little piece of business.  Now you will be so good as to wait for a short time, will you not?—­and it is warm in there; I will be with you soon.”

Lind walked into the large workshop, where there were a number of people at work, all round the large, circular, covered caldron, the various apertures into which sent out fierce rays of light and heat.  He walked about, seemingly at his ease; looking at the apprentices experimenting; chatting to the workmen.  And at last he asked one of these to make for him a little vase in opalescent glass, that he could take to his daughter in England; and could he put the letter N on it somewhere?  It was at least some occupation, watching the quick and dexterous handling under which the little vase grew into form, and had its decoration cleverly pinched out, and its tiny bits of color added.  The letter N was not very successful; but then Natalie would know that her father had been thinking of her at Venice.

This excursion at all events tided over the forenoon; and when the two companions returned to the wet and disconsolate city, Calabressa was easily persuaded to join his friend in some sort of mid-day meal.  After that, the long-haired albino-looking person took his leave, having arranged how Lind was to keep the assignation for that evening.

The afternoon cleared up somewhat; but Ferdinand Lind seemed to find it dull enough.  He went out for an aimless stroll through some of the narrow back streets, slowly making his way among the crowd that poured along these various ways.  Then he returned to his hotel, and wrote some letters.  Then he dined early; but still the time did not seem to pass.  He resolved on getting through an hour or so at the theatre.

A gondola swiftly took him away through the labyrinth of small and gloomy canals, until at length the wan orange glare shining out into the night showed him that he was drawing near one of the entrances to the Fenice.  If he had been less preoccupied—­less eager to think of nothing but how to get the slow hours over—­he might have noticed the strangeness of the scene before him:  the successive gondolas stealing silently up through the gloom to the palely lit stone steps; the black coffins appearing to open; and then figures in white and scarlet opera-cloaks getting out into the dim light, to ascend into the brilliant glare of the theatre staircase.  He, too, followed, and got into the place assigned to him.  But this spectacular display failed to interest him.  He turned to the bill, to remind him what he had to see.  The blaze of color on the stage—­the various combinations of movement—­the resounding music—­all seemed part of a dream; and it annoyed him somehow.  He rose and left.

The intervening time he spent chiefly in a cafe close by the theatre, where he smoked cigarettes and appeared to read the newspapers.  Then he wandered away to the spot appointed for him to meet a particular gondola, and arrived there half an hour too soon.  But the gondola was there also.  He jumped in and was carried away through the silence of the night.