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people around him were far less formal, and he looked very brown and fit in the shadow of the cathedral ... and beautifully shaved, and by far the most fastidious man so far as his appearance was concerned that Cathleen had ever met. “I know we met for the first time yesterday, but I did have the pleasure of seeing you twice, and last night I was very disappointed because I was not permitted the pleasure of seeing you back to your hotel.”
    Cathleen wondered whether he really meant what he said about being disappointed because there was really nothing to prevent him seeing her home the night before ... only Bianca di Rini. And either he was not in a position to deny Signorina di Rini the gratification of some of her whims, or else he had derived far greater pleasure by remaining behind at the palazzo with her.
    “Oh, I had no right to drag you away from the party,” she said, aware that the warm colour in her cheeks was fading slowly, and since he was not wearing sun-glasses the admi ri ng expression in his eyes as they rested on her quite openly could not be misunderstood. It was, in fact, so openly admiring that she wondered for one wild moment whether it was he who had sent her the red roses. “It was a very successful party, wasn’t it?” she said, at a loss for something more inspired to say.
    “Was it?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Bianca is a good hostess, and one is never dull with her choice of friends.” He bent forward and peered at her glass. “What are you drinking?”
    “Campari and soda,” she answered. “I wanted to try it.”
    “Do you like it?”
    “No.”
    “Then have a long cool lime and soda. Something tells me you will prefer that.”
    He summoned the waiter, and the fresh drinks were brought. She had no idea what his was, but the waiter seemed to understand perfectly what he liked, and it was contained in a tall glass with ice chinking at the bottom of it, just as there was ice chinking at the bottom of her glass.
    “What are your plans for to-day?” Edouard asked, when Cathleen had made the discovery that her lime and soda was delicious. “Have you anything very intensive worked out, or are you simply being lazy on this your first day ? ”
    “My first free day,” she co r rected him. “Yesterday I had to visit the Palazzo di Rini.”
    “With very little result, I’m afraid ... except that Paul was obviously smitten by those Irish eyes of yours.” Once more he bent forward, and this time she realised he was admiring the red rose tucked carelessly inside her belt ... and as she was wearing another white dress the effect was extremely pleasing. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Someone sent you roses this morning, yes?”
    She coloured brilliantly once more.
    “The ridiculous thing about it,” she confessed, “is that I have no idea who it was who sent them. There was no card in the box.”
    “Really?” His eyebrows went up. “Now we all know the message of red roses, but I think if I had been consulted in good time about flowers for you I would have selected something just a little less ostentatious. White roses, perhaps ... or partly opened very pale pink ones.” His eyes, so dark and deep that they had a strange magnetic effect on her, studied her thoughtfully. “To me you suggest a half-opened rose ... a rose in the bud! So yes, I think I would have sent you rosebuds!”
    Cathleen was conscious of a ridiculous sensation like disappointment. She had never really believed that it was Edouard who had sent her the box of flagran tl y expensive roses, and yet not knowing anyone else in Venice to whom she could attribute the desire to give her such pleasure she had been secretly inclined to believe that it might have been Moroc. It was fairly obvious that he was not a poor man, and floral tributes to him probably meant nothing at all—he probably spent half his time sending flowers to pretty girls, although somehow she couldn’t quite believe that. But if it was not Moroc who