Mark's and
the Ducal Palace the pigeons had begun to roost. An animated crowd was
walking up and down in the Piazza where a band was playing; and on the
golden horses of St. Mark's there shone a pale and mystical light, the
last reflection from the western sky. Under the colonnades the jewellers
and glass-shops blazed and sparkled, and the warm sea-wind fluttered
the Italian flags on the great flag-staffs that but so recently had
borne the Austrian eagle.
Ashe walked with his head thrown back, thinking absently, in this centre
of Venice, of English politics, and of a phrase of Metternich's he had
come across in a volume of memoirs he had been lately reading on the
journey:
"Le jour qui court n'a aucune valeur pour moi, excepte comme la veille
du lendemain. C'est toujours avec le lendemain que mon esprit lutte."
The phrase pleased him particularly.
He, too, was wrestling with the morrow, though in another sense than
Metternich's. His mind was alive with projects; an exultant
consciousness both of capacity and opportunity possessed him.
"Why, you've passed the club, William!" said Kitty.
Ashe awoke with a start, smiled at her, and with a wave of the hand
disappeared in a stairway to the right.
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