“Is that all you can say for her?"

“About all, I think. She's young, you know; and I suppose rather stupid.”

Philip snorted in answer, and kicked the footstool.

"I shall go early," said Stephen, "and get back for a lesson from Andrea. Do you care to come?" "I think not, thanks."

Philip left alone stood up and stretched himself, and as he moved was conscious of his fine health and strength. He pushed his thick hair back from his forehead, and stared out into the clear cool night. It seemed hard to him that life had nothing left for him.

43

CHAPTER IV.

"Is the day so young?"

PHILIP LAMOND rose next morning in a mood of gentle melancholy. He supposed that he must live, or at least might as well live; though it was not worth while to begin the day at that preposterous hour, when Stephen came in upon him and told him that he was off to the island. Yet it was still early when he had finished his solitary breakfast and moodily faced the day. He missed his friend sadly. There was nobody whom he could disturb; nobody at whom he could grumble. The rooms were too narrow for him. He dropped down the stairs and into the busy little alley at the back of the house. There were many folk bustling up and down; little lithe women in skimp gowns and with hair elaborately dressed; broad country-bred girls with massive braids and bright shawls across

their shoulders; many loafers and many cigarettes. They crossed and recrossed in the funny little paved passages, which are the dry streets of Venice, which twist and turn through the length and breadth of the city, rising over little bridges and ducking under arches, creeping round angles of church or garden wall. At this early hour no ray of sunlight reached the pavement of these narrow streets; but the air was warm, and the populace seemed happy. They were waking to a new life. Winter weather and insufficient polenta may be borne with good - humour, but not with hilarity. Now summer was coming, and warmth, and tourists. There is much gaiety and freedom in this back-street life. People don't think of themselves there, as even Italians must think when they cross the Grand Piazza and the band plays. Business moves nimbly on, and gossip lingers. There is pleasant haggling at the bright little vegetable stall. This simple gaiety is not to be resisted by sympathetic people; Philip was amused. He could not help feeling an exquisite quality in the air, which met him more frankly as he stepped into the open Place. He glanced up at the great horses of Saint Mark, which paced above him, all of dull gold in the shadow. Down below their

stately feet the pigeons well fed and fearless thronged about the scattered grain, or sweeping headlong by human heads streamed into the sunshine, and into sudden splendour of burnished green.

The morning had a charm beyond words, beyond thought, full of exquisite emotion, with all the freshness of spring and all the softness of summer. The air brought a thought of the open sea, and a dream of roses to come. Somewhere it had lingered among the marble columns of a lone Greek temple, and gathered the sighs of unseen worshippers. It had moved laughing on the laughing waters, and caught the myriad whispers of the sea. It had moaned once more for the dead white limbs of Leander, and kissed the foam at the rosy feet of Galatea. With music and dancing it stepped from wave to wave; and before it Botticelli's Aphrodite quaintly beautiful and delicately pure was wafted shoreward in her magic shell. So spring comes, and Venus, and the three sisters with their arms entwined. There was never an old doge worthy to wed the Adriatic.

Marco the gondolier lolling at the water's edge felt the sweet air and forgot the winter. He lay in the sunlight bright as a lizard. He had girt him

self with his splendid sash, partly for sympathy with the general gaiety, partly because he knew that the women of the forestieri themselves of dismal hue and dowdy expect romantic colour in the gondolier. The Venetians have always been a sensible and business-like people. When Philip Lamond caught sight of this brilliant young boatman grinning recognition, he thought that he might as well go after his friend Stephen, because friendship seemed suitable to the time and because it would be pleasant in a gondola. Beyond the crowded boats and the tremulous water, the Campanile of San Giorgio, with the spring of a willow wand, rose from its island into the cool bright air. It seemed to enjoy the atmosphere about it and to gaze triumphantly away to the far-off misty mountains where snow and snowwhite cloud melted together in the blue. Philip, lying in his gondola, floated forth into dreamland. On every side the distance clothed itself in haze, too luminous for shadow, too soft for light. Marco bending lithe and supple to the oar heard the young Englishman sigh; and from his post behind him began to babble a little song to cheer him. But Philip was away in the past, sad as night, finding some subtle pleasure in his sadness. Moments