A day of sudden bursts of
watery light, of bands of purple distance struck into enchanting beauty
by the red or orange of a sail, of a wild salt breath in air that seemed
to be still suffused with spray. The Alps were hidden; but what sun
there was played faintly on the Euganean hills.
"I say, Margaret, at last she does us some credit!" said Ashe, pointing
to his wife.
Margaret started. Was it rouge?--or was it the strong air? Kitty's
languor had entirely disappeared; she was more cheerful and more
talkative than she had been at any time since their arrival. She
chattered about the current scandals of Venice--the mysterious contessa
who lived in the palace opposite their own, and only went out, in deep
mourning, at night, because she had been the love of a Russian
grand-duke, and the grand-duke was dead; of the Carlist pretender and
his wife, who had been very popular in Venice until they took it into
their heads to require royal honors, and Venice, taking time to think,
had lazily decided the game was not worth the candle--so now the sulky
pair went about alone in a fine gondola, turning glassy eyes on their
former acquaintance; of the needy marchese who had sold a Titian to the
Louvre, and had then found himself boycotted by all his kinsfolk in
Venice who were not needy and had no Titians to sell--all these tales
Kitty reeled out at length till the handsome gondoliers marvelled at the
little lady's vivacity and the queer brightness of her eyes.
Pages:
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513