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"But it wouldn't take you a quarter of an hour, and we could row you up the river in no time—ever so much faster than you could walk."

"Do you know Lord Lostwithiel?" Belinda asked languidly, as Isola sipped her tea, sitting shyly in the broad glare of a colossal fireplace. "Oh yes, by-the-by, you met him here the week before last."

What fever-fraught vision was it that those hands tried to shut out from her burning eyes? So little had happened—so little—only half an hour's quiet walk along the towpath, where the leafless willows had a grim, uncanny look, like those trees whose old grey branches seemed the arms of the Erlking's daughters, beckoning the child as he nestled in his father's arms, riding through the night. So little—so little—and yet it meant the lifting of a veil—the passage from happy innocence to the full consciousness of an unholy love. It meant what one kiss on trembling lips meant for Paolo and Francesca. It meant the plunge into a gulf of dark despair—unless she had strength to draw back, seeing the abyss at her feet, warned of her danger.

"They seem rather fond of talking to each other, don't they? Who was she? She's uncommonly pretty."

"Tell me about your dream," she said, after a pause, with her forehead still resting on his hands, and her face hidden. "Was it something very awful?"

[Pg 93]

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