leaning against the wall, his eyes still on Peter's face.

"Queer manners you have, dear Jim," was what they heard Lord Evelyn say
as they stepped into the Ca' delle Gemme gondola, that was taking them
back to the Rio delle Beccarie.

They swung out into the faintly-shining darkness of the water-road, into
which the climbing moon could not look--a darkness crossed and flecked by
the red gleamings of the few gondola and sandolo lights abroad at this
hour in the quiet street. They sent their own red path before them as
they softly travelled; and round it the stars flickered and swam, deep
down. Peter could have sworn he heard their thin, tinkling, submerged,
funny song, somewhere above or beneath the soft and melodious "Chérie
Birri-Bim," that someone (not Lord Evelyn's beautifully trained and
taciturn _poppe_) was crooning near at hand.

The velvet darkness of a bridge drowned the stars for a moment; then,
with a musical, abrupt cry of "Sta--i!" they swung round a corner into
a narrow way that was silver and green in the face of the climbing moon.

The musically lovely night, the peace of the dim water-ways, the
shadowing mystery of the steep, shuttered houses, with here and there a
lit door or window ajar, sending a slant of yellow light across the deep
green lane full of stars and the moon, the faint crooning of music far
off, made a cool marvel of peace for strung nerves. Peter sat by Hilary
in silence, and no longer wanted to ask questions. In the strange,
enveloping wonder of the night, minor wonders died. What did it matter,
anyhow? Hilary and Venice--Venice and Hilary--give them time, and one
would explain the other.