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Through the quiet canals, between the tall cliffs of their bordering houses, the hired gondola crept on its leisurely way. The bright pole pierced the waters as leaden-grey as a sheet of pewter, patched with weed; here and there a gondolier, lounging on water-lapped steps, glanced up with casual curiosity at the fashionable strangers gliding by. Otherwise all was quiet, all was still. ‘For heaven’s sake,’ said Lady Corby, her vinaigrette to her nose, ‘what by-ways are these? Shall we never be there?’
Sir Bertram sat very erect and precise beside her. ‘We have been many days on the journey from England. What matters an extra half hour?’
‘If this girl is not all that my brother has promised—’
‘Your brother is a madman, Marcia. I have always said so. For some fancied slight he turned his back upon England, cut himself off from his family, ruined all his prospects; and now expects you, through this paragon of his, to re-establish his name.’
‘His name is past recall. Who cares now for poor, silly James Devigne and some gaming scandal forgotten years ago? But the girl … If we can but get her home, exhibit her in society, marry her well …’
The gondola nosed round a corner, its high, black-painted iron prow dipped into the shadows of a bridge and out again into the sunshine. ‘Very well, my dear; and then—I have told you. We marry
