She
could see only the figure of Piero, the gondolier, and in another second
the boat was gone. She stayed there for many minutes, clinging to the
balustrade and staring, as it seemed, at the sparkle of autumnal sun
which danced on the green water and on the red palace to her right.
* * * * *
All the morning Kitty on her sofa pretended to write letters. Margaret
French, working or reading behind her, knew that she scarcely got
through a single note, that her pen lay idle on the paper, while her
eyes absently watched the palace windows on the other side of the canal.
Miss French was quite certain that some tragic cause of difference
between the husband and wife had arisen. Kitty, the indiscreet, had for
once kept her own counsel about the book, and Ashe had with his own
hands packed away the volumes which had arrived the night before; so
that she could only guess, and from that delicacy of feeling restrained
her as much as possible.
Once or twice Kitty seemed on the point of unburdening herself. Then
overmastering tears would threaten; she would break off and begin to
write. At luncheon her look alarmed Miss French, so white was the little
face, so large and restless the eyes.
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