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CHAPTER XIII.

"For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring."

THE weather had become suddenly hot. The pleasant airs of spring were gone, and Venice breathed only languor and expectation. Men lounging on the little bridges looked up and wondered when the storm would come, but still the storm delayed. The canals seemed dull and sluggish, and the water hummed drowsily against the high blank walls. Stephen Aylward felt the pervading torpor in his blood, and was hopeless of that mood of artistic calm, which half-cynically he accepted as his ideal. He could not work and did not care to play. Having nothing to do he began to think that he might make himself useful that he might as well keep an eye on young Cheepyre, and prevent him as far as might be from being made a fool of. He could not forget Cynthia's passionate appeal to him. He was

irritated by its frequent recurrence.

In vain he

told himself that it was none of his business, that he was not his brother's keeper, that Cheepyre was not his brother. He tried to laugh at his lazy cousin's sudden awakening, but it was too hot for laughter. "Give a girl one lover," he said with weary irony," and she looks out for a score. Give her two, and it is ten to one that she prefers the fellow who runs after somebody else." In such terms he argued with himself; and would then try to turn his attention to composition but in vain. He had conclusive reasons for doing nothing in this matter of Lord Cheepyre. If the Contessa enslaved the youth, no harm would be done except to his pocket, and Philip Lamond would be rid of a rival. If the Deane family succeeded in winning their little lord from the expensive influence of the Italian woman, so much the better for master Freddie, and Philip was well rid of a minx. The arguments in favour of Stephen Aylward's remaining an amused spectator of the comedy were unanswerable. But unluckily the amusement was absent. In its place was an unusual irritability due as he said to the electrical state of the atmosphere, and a haunting recurrence of the girl's irrational appeal. So Stephen with a shrug confessed himself a fool, and for two dull

slumbrous days favoured Lord Cheepyre with a great deal of his company. He indulged in occasional sarcasm, which was not understood, and awaited an opportunity of admonition. He found it easy to wait, and thought that, if the storm would only come, he would find the energy necessary for exhortation. On the afternoon of the second day he was lazily looking about for his charge, and refreshing his troubled spirit with a vision of driving rain which would set the dull waters hissing, when he felt a hand on his shoulder and turning a lack-lustre eye found that the object of his search had come to him. Cheepyre was in unusual spirits. "Come along with me," he cried heartily, "and dine at the Florian. Don't say no."

"I wasn't going to," answered Stephen.

"Then step out my bloomer," said the other with easy familiarity.

The weather had no depressing effect on Lord Cheepyre. He tilted his hat over one eye; he chuckled to himself; he moved as one who knew the world. The great Piazza seemed too small for him and his knowledge of life. "It's uncommon hot," he said; "champagne and lots of ice." He addressed the waiters with easy pleasantry; he was

garrulous and a little noisy, and wholly unconscious of his guest's silence.

The Caffe was hot; and when at the end of dinner Stephen stepped out into the Piazza he found that the evening had brought no freshness. "I've a

leaden weight on my head," he said wearily.

"You didn't drink enough," said Cheepyre gaily. "Holloa! here's the band. Strike up my sportsmen!" and he began to sing a hunting song. can't catch it: what's the blooming note?" "Hush!" said Stephen anxiously.

"I

"Stunning place this Venice!" burst forth Lord Cheepyre presently, as he hung on his friend's arm. "So I have heard," answered Stephen sooth, ingly.

Thundering jolly place, ripping place Venice! I don't mean your pictures and all that. What's the good of pictures? Give me originals.”

Stephen Aylward began to think that his charge. had drunk too much. There was certainly something curious in his pronunciation of the word "originals." "Come to my rooms," he suggested.

Certainly not," said Cheepyre with excessive solemnity. "I am going to make a visit—charming woman-I'll take you-any friend of mine-I don't care what you do-you may go to the devil

-I am going to make a visit to the little Countess Belrotoli."

As he was speaking the band stopped playing; and his last words which were pitched in a high key rang with unfortunate sharpness above the murmur of voices. The people all about him looked and laughed. They were always ready to find infinite amusement in the eccentricities of travelling Englishmen. But there was one who was in no mood for laughter. At the sound of the lady's name so idly uttered an upright thin figure turned sharply; the end of his long military cloak fell from his left shoulder; and Stephen with a sensation of hopelessness saw the eyes of Tiribomba glare through his appalling glasses. The Captain came close and spoke low and rapidly with concentrated fury in his voice. Cheepyre listened to the flow of Italian with an exaggerated air of deference. "My sentiments exactly," he said with an empty laugh.

"I forgot you know nothing," said Tiribomba in English. "The Signor Aylward will tell my meaning. As for you, if you make more visits, I know how to speak to a young English dog." He hissed the words with extreme malignity, and Cheepyre started as if he had been struck. Then he turned