The hidden wound stung again. Had he, then, no right
to speak? He felt himself the elder son of the parable--and hated
himself anew.
But he was a Christian, on his Master's business. He must obey orders,
even though he could feel no satisfaction, or belief in himself--though
he seem to himself such a shallow and perfunctory person. So he did his
tender best for Kitty. He spent his loving, enthusiastic, pitiful soul
upon her; and while he talked to her she sat with her hands crossed on
her lap, and her eyes wandering through the open window to the forests
of masts outside and the dancing wavelets of the lagoon. When at last he
spoke of the further provision Ashe wished to make for her, when he
implored her to summon Margaret French, she shook her head. "I must
think what I shall do," she said, quietly; and a minute afterwards, with
a flash of her old revolt--"He cannot prevent my going to Harry's
grave!"
* * * * *
Early the following morning the murdered man was carried to the cemetery
at San Michele. In spite of some attempt on the part of the police to
keep the hour secret, half Venice followed the black-draped barca, which
bore that flawed poet and dubious hero to his rest.
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