As he bent over her he heard her moaning again and again the words, "False to love; false to love." He drew himself up with sudden fear. It seemed to him as if a voice within himself were speaking -a voice which he had smothered under admirable arguments. "O my God, I have been false to love all my life," moaned the Contessa in Italian; "false to love; false to love." The words of the wretched woman were awful in their dreariness, as were her face and attitude in her oblivion of appearances. She hung in the big chair a mere whisp of weariness, and could take no comfort save in moaning like a dumb animal.

Philip saw a grotesque horror in the picture, as if some stage queen accustomed all her life to glass jewelry and tinsel, to many dyings and revivals, were smitten by death itself there, on the sham throne with her sham court about her, and the prompter's whisper unheeded.

Meanwhile Hugo Deane emboldened by the confidence of the younger man had drawn near and listened with a pained expression to the monotonous plaint of the Countess. At last, as Philip said nothing, Mr Deane began to feel that there was no reason why he should not take the lead in the consolation. He ventured to congratulate him

self on having his wits about him; he caught at a familiar thought; and even at that moment he felt a gentle pleasure in the excellence of his Italian pronunciation. "There is pardon for those who love too much," he murmured scarcely above his breath. "Too much!" she cried out in anguish; "but I have never loved-never, never, never." She started up, and Hugo jumped quickly backward.

For the first time the woman was clearly aware of the presence of men, and knew that they were looking at her. As she stood and stared at them she began to amplify her theme, to execute variations on her anguish. "I have never known love," she cried: "I never could love. All is still here," and she laid her hand upon her heart; "still and cold as the tomb."

Mr Deane fixed his eyes inquiringly on Philip; the young man turned aside with a sigh of relief. As he turned, he heard voices and steps on the stone stairs. He crossed the room and drew aside the curtain, as the door after some fumbling was pulled noisily open. Then Lady Lappin came sailing in with extended arms and motherly babbling of pity.

The Belrotoli launched herself towards her friend and was lost in her embrace. Philip half hidden

by the curtain caught a glimpse of the dark eyes which he loved, wide with wonder and tender with pity; but the eyes were turned on the bereaved woman, and the young man slipped into the passage unseen. He went home wondering, thinking many thoughts. He was tired and fell into a deep sleep; but before dawn he awoke with a sound of low moaning in his ears. "False to love," he heard the hoarse voice murmur, "false to love." He lay motionless, breathless as if to hear the words again; but there was utter silence. Only the cool pure dawn came softly in and made the room light. It seemed to Philip impossible that he should have thought of leaving Venice without another word with Hugo Deane. His path seemed plain before him. He was very calm, and he even worked a little, until the hour came when he could present himself at the Palazzo Belrotoli.

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CHAPTER XXVI.

"Did my heart love till now?"

THE apartments of Lady Lappin were many and splendid; but beyond them all was a smaller room, which seemed to be there by chance, to have been dropped in to fill a corner. It had but two windows and each looked a different way. The sun was in it all day long, and it was the favourite haunt of Cynthia Deane. There she sat in the sleepy afternoon and looked away to the light upon the waters. And as she looked, her fancy passed beyond her sight and she thought of her beloved island on the lagoon. With a smile a little sad she pictured old Rosa and her small rough Swiss cows. She wished that she might help to milk them that evening, but her hands lay idle on her open book and the tears rose to her eyes. There were many sad things even in her little world.

She was sorry for the Contessa Belrotoli; she was sorry for her friend and playmate Freddie; she was a little sorry for herself. She had outgrown her life and was uneasy. Lady Lappin had insinuated some doubts of the wisdom of visits to Andrew Fernlyn's garden; and the girl felt that the Palazzo Belrotoli was narrow for all its space. And Cynthia blamed herself a little because she was not more elated by the honour paid to her father. For honour and recognition had at last come to Hugo Deane, or at least such promise of honour as had served to support him through many small trials-notably through a disappointing interview with his young cousin Cheepyre, and through the eminently distressing scene with the Contessa Belrotoli. Mr Deane had impressed Freddie vastly by the dignity and propriety of his behaviour when he heard that his daughter had refused so brilliant a match. He was vexed with her, but proud of her and inclined to indulge the fancy that she had inherited something of this independent spirit. He even tapped her on the cheek with a brief pleasure in the thought that he could so treat one who had refused to be a peeress. He reviewed his position and acknowledged that it was good. His condescension in becoming one of