The only disappointment was, that the pigeons of the Square were
certainly fatter and greedier than the pictured cloud of doves, which in
his day-dream he had seen flash the under-side of their wings at his
love as they checked themselves to alight at her feet.

But on Lido side there was no such rift in the lute's perfection. The
sands, the wheeling sea-birds, the tall girl in white whose hand he
held--all these were even as he had imagined them. Thither they came
every day, passing along the straight dusty avenue, and then wandering
for hours picking shells. They talked only when the mood took them, and
in the pauses they listened idly to the slumbrous pulsations of Adria.
John Arniston had lied at large in the letter he had written to his
love. He had assaulted a man who righteously withstood him in the
discharge of his duty, in order to steal that letter back again. Yet his
conscience was wholly void of offence in the matter. The heavens smiled
upon his bride and himself. There was now no stern voice to break
through upon his blissful self-approval.

Why there should be this favouritism among the commandments, was not
clear to John. Indeed, the thing did not trouble him. He was no casuist.
He only knew that the way was clear to Miriam Gale, and he went to her
the swiftest way.

But there were, for all that, the elements of a very pretty dilemma in
the psychology of morals in the case of Miriam Gale and John Arniston.
True, the calf-skin Bible said when it was consulted, "The letter
killeth, but the spirit maketh alive."

But, after all, that might prove upon examination to have nothing to do