Margaret looked at me with surprised blue eyes.

"This is beautiful beyond measure, you know," I said, sticking to my
point, "but I have work to do."

She was silent for some seconds. "I had forgotten," she said.

"So had I," I sympathised, and took her hand. "Suddenly I have
remembered."

She remained quite still. "There is so much to be done," I said,
almost apologetically.

She looked long away from me across the lagoon and at last sighed,
like one who has drunk deeply, and turned to me.

"I suppose one ought not to be so happy," she said. "Everything has
been so beautiful and so simple and splendid. And clean. It has
been just With You--the time of my life. It's a pity such things
must end. But the world is calling you, dear. . . . I ought not to
have forgotten it. I thought you were resting--and thinking. But
if you are rested.--Would you like us to start to-morrow?"

She looked at once so fragile and so devoted that on the spur of the
moment I relented, and we stayed in Venice four more days.



CHAPTER THE FOURTH