pigeons, and listening very little to the music. There are times
when St. Mark's seems to glare at you with Byzantine cruelty,
and Venice is too hot and too cold. So it was then. Evening
found us staring out at the Adriatic from the terrace of a cafe'
on the Ledo, our coffee cold before us. Never was a greater
difference than that in my companion from the previous day. Yet
he was not silent. He talked of her continually, having found
that he could talk of her to me--though certainly he did not
know why it was or how. He told me, as we sat by the grey-
growing sea, that she had spoken of me.

"She liked you, she liked you very much," he said. "She told me
she liked you because you were quiet and melancholy. Oh Lord,
though, she likes everyone, I suppose! I believe I'd have a
better chance with her if I hadn't always known her. I'm afraid
that this damn Italian--I beg your pardon, Ansolini!--"

"Ah, no," I answered. "It is sometimes well said."

"I'm afraid his picturesqueness as a Kentucky Colonel appeals to
her too much. And then he is new to her--a new type. She only
met him in Paris, and he had done some things in the Abyssinian
war--"

"What is his rank?" I asked.

"He's a prince. Cheap down this way; aren't they? I only hope"
--and Poor Jr. made a groan--"it isn't going to be the old
story--and that he'll be good to her if he gets her."