and, without consciously missing it, she must sometimes subtly,
perhaps vaguely, be aware that there was a lack in her life. Her
mother gave her great love. But she was not to her mother what a son
would have been. And the love that is mingled with regret has surely
something shadowy in it.

Maurice Delarey had been as the embodiment of joy. It was strange that
from the fount of joy sorrow was thrown up. But so it was. From him
sorrow had come. From him sorrow might still come, even for Vere.

In the white and silent day Artois again felt the stirring of
intuition, as he had felt it long ago. But now he roused himself, and
resolutely, almost angrily, detached his mind from its excursions
towards the future.

"Do you often think of to-morrow?" he suddenly said to the boatman,
breaking from his silence.

"Signore?"

"Do you often wonder what is going to happen to-morrow, what you will
do, whether you will be happy or sad?"

The man threw up his head.

"No, Signore. Whatever comes is destiny. If I have food to-day it is
enough for me. Why should I bother about to-morrow's maccheroni?"

Artois smiled. The boat was close in now to the platform of stone that
projected beneath the wall of the Marina.