for which this holiday was to have been the opportunity.
In the Arve valley he had purposely
put off all reference to the subject of which they
had spoken under the magnolia tree; it would be
cruel, he thought, to spoil the first delights of
Alpine scenery for a nature so artistic as Arthur's
by associating them with a conversation which
must necessarily be painful. Ever since the day
at Martigny he had said to himself each morning;
"I will speak to-day," and each evening: "I will
speak to-morrow;" and now the holiday was over,
and he still repeated again and again: "To-morrow,
to-morrow." A chill, indefinable sense of
something not quite the same as it had been, of
an invisible veil falling between himself and
Arthur, kept him silent, until, on the last evening
of their holiday, he realized suddenly that
he must speak now if he would speak at all.
They were stopping for the night at Lugano,
and were to start for Pisa next morning. He
would at least find out how far his darling had
been drawn into the fatal quicksand of Italian
politics.

"The rain has stopped, carino," he said after
sunset; "and this is the only chance we shall have
to see the lake. Come out; I want to have a talk
with you."

They walked along the water's edge to a quiet