"A tyrant!" she said. "Oh no! I can scarcely say he is a tyrant."

"Then why do you go with him?"

She looked round for a moment, then her eyes returned to the pageant of the sky.

"Why does one do anything?" she said suddenly in a changed voice.

With a quiet movement Deerehurst leant forward over the railing, and looked into her face.

"Usually we do things because we must," he said softly. "But compulsion is not always disagreeable. Sometimes we are compelled to action by our own desires----"

Clodagh, conscious of his close regard, felt her breath come a little quicker. But she did not change her position; she did not cease to study the sky. She knew that his arm was all but touching hers; she was sensitive to the faint and costly perfume that emanated from his clothes. But she felt these things vaguely, impersonally, as items in a drama unconnected with herself. When his next words came, it was curiosity rather than dread that stirred in her mind.

"It is my desires that are forcing me to speak now. The desire to see you again after you leave Venice--the desire to see more of you than a mere acquaintance sees--to be something more than a mere friend----"

Clodagh still looked intently at the stars, but unconsciously her lips parted.

"Why?" she asked below her breath. And it seemed to her that the word was not spoken by her, but by some one else.

With an eager gesture, Deerehurst extended his hand, and his long, pale fingers closed over her own.

Then out across the darkness and the silence of the balcony floated the strong, decisive voice of Lady Frances Hope.

"Lord Deerehurst!" it called. "Lord Deerehurst! So sorry, but Rose wants you to give an expert opinion upon one point in a game of bridge.

It won't take two minutes."

The voice faded away again as its owner moved back into the room.

At the sound of his name, Deerehurst had drawn himself erect. Now, bending forward silently and swiftly, he lifted the hand he was still holding and kissed it vehemently. The next moment he had crossed the balcony and entered the salon.

Left alone, Clodagh stood motionless. With a vivid physical consciousness, she could still feel the pressure of his cold lips upon her hand; but her mental sensations were benumbed. That something had occurred she dimly realised; that some point--some climax--had been reached she was vaguely aware. But what its personal bearing upon her own life might be, she made no attempt to guess. With a dazed mind she gazed out across the quiet ca.n.a.l, striving to marshal her ideas.

For several seconds she stood in this state of mental confusion; then, with disconcerting suddenness, a new incident obtruded itself upon her mind. With a violent start, she became conscious that some one had pa.s.sed through the open window, and was coming towards her, across the balcony.

She turned sharply. But as she did so, her fingers slipped from the railing, and all thought of Deerehurst's kiss was banished from her mind. With a sense of acute surprise, she recognised the figure of Sir Walter Gore.

Taking no notice of her dismayed silence, he came quietly forward.

"Good-evening, Mrs. Milbanke," he said. "Have you been enjoying yourself?"

With a certain vague confusion, she met his gaze.

"Yes," she answered. "I--I suppose so."

There was a short silence; and Gore, moving to the balcony railing, rested his arm upon it.

"It is getting late," he said. "Time for us all to be thinking of our hotels."

Again she looked at him in faint bewilderment.

"Yes. I--I suppose so," she said once more.

Another pause succeeded her halting words; then, with a gesture of decision, Gore stood upright, bringing his glance back to her face.

"Mrs. Milbanke," he said suddenly, "let me take you home! I have a gondola waiting at the steps."

The words were so totally unexpected that Clodagh remained mute, and, leaning forward, looked down into the heavy shadows cast by the ancient palace. There was a strange sensation of triumph in this unlooked-for moment--in this sudden capitulation of a man who had previously ignored her: a sensation before which all lesser things--Deerehurst's pa.s.sion, Serracauld's ardour, Barnard's friendship--became meaningless and vague.

But Gore, guessing nothing from her bent head, glanced behind him towards the salon.

"Well?" he said. "May I be your escort?"

Under cover of the dusk, Clodagh smiled.

"Mr. Barnard generally takes me home----"

Involuntarily Gore's figure stiffened.

"--But," she added in a low, quick whisper, "I--I would very much rather go back with you!"

Under many conditions, the words would have seemed bold. But the manner in which she uttered them disarmed criticism. Gore's face relaxed.

"Then let us make our escape!" he said. "Lady Frances is settling a bridge dispute; and quite a dozen people have slipped away in the last ten minutes. No one will question which of them has taken you home."

And Clodagh gave a short, light laugh of sudden pleasure. The small conspiracy made Gore so much more human--drew them so much closer together than they had been before.

"Yes!--yes!" she said eagerly. "And I am lunching with Lady Frances to-morrow. I can explain then."

"Yes! Quite so! Now, if you are ready!"

He moved to the window.

Very quietly they re-entered the salon; and a flush crossed Clodagh's face as she saw Deerehurst bending over a card-table with the nearest approach to boredom and impatience she had ever known him to evince.

Her heart, already beating to the thought of her new conquest, gave an added leap at this silent evidence of her power.

In the corridor outside the salon Gore took her cloak from the servant, and himself wrapped it about her as they descended the stairs; then, pa.s.sing to the flight of worn steps that led to the water, he signalled to a waiting gondolier.

"Mrs. Milbanke," he said, as he offered her his hand, "I am going to make a strange request. I want to talk to you for half an hour before taking you home. Will you give me leave to make a tour of the ca.n.a.ls?"

He spoke very quietly and in a tone difficult to construe.

At his curious appeal, her heart gave another quick, excited throb, though instinctively she realised that neither Deerehurst, Serracauld, nor Barnard would have proposed a midnight excursion in quite his voice or manner. But the very mode of the request enhanced its charm. She looked up into his face as she laid her hand in his.

"I give you leave!" she said gently.

He met her glance, but almost immediately averted his eyes. And as he handed her to the seat, he turned swiftly to the gondolier, addressing him in Italian.

The colloquy lasted but a few seconds, and at its conclusion the boat shot silently out into the ca.n.a.l.

"This man does not understand a word of English," he said, as he dropped into his place by Clodagh's side.