He smiled, resting his hand on the Marchese's shoulder with easy
familiarity.

"See where she stands!" he continued,--and they both looked towards
the beautiful flower-bordered terrace at the verge of the gardens
overhanging the sea where for the moment Morgana stood alone, a
small white figure bathed in the deep rose afterglow of the sunken
sun--"Like a pearl dropped in a cup of red wine!--ready to dissolve
and disappear!"

His voice had a strange thrill in it, and Giulio looked at him
curiously.

"You admire her very much, my father!" he said, with a touch of
delicate irony in his tone.

"I do, my son!" responded Aloysius, composedly, "But only as a poor
priest may--at a distance!"

The Marchese glanced at him again quickly,--almost suspiciously--and
seemed about to say something further, but checked himself,--and the
two walked on to join their hostess, side by side together.




CHAPTER VIII