earnest in declaring my love for her. And so that evening I walked very soberly toward the steamboat-landing, followed by the porter with my bag.

124

The little steamer had given its warning toot, my bag was aboard, I was about to follow, when I turned, hoping for one last glimpse of Jacqueline. To my surprise, she was running toward me. She was in distress. In an instant I was at her side.

“What, what does it mean, you going away like this?” she panted.

“I am going back to Venice, Jacqueline,” I answered her gravely.

“To Venice!” she cried, dismayed. “To Venice this evening, and without saying good-by to me? Why?”

“I have had a tiff, dear Jacqueline, with your aunt, and she has ordered me off. I leave the field,” I added a little bitterly, “to a handsomer, and I wish I could say to a better, man.”

She withdrew the hand she had given me, and flushed angrily. Then her face became very pale.

125“Forgive me, Jacqueline, I did not mean to hurt you.”

125

“And what has my aunt told you?” she almost whispered.

“She has told me, Jacqueline, that Duke da Sestos has asked you to be his wife. She wishes you to consent. She believes that you have not refused him.”

Her color came and went. She drew in a little breath, and her brown eyes looked over at the mountains beyond Cadenabbia. Tears gathered in them and began to fall slowly down her cheeks.

“But it is not true,” I cried, and seized her hand. “It is impossible that you should have done that.”

“It is quite true,” she said almost impassively. “He has asked me to be his wife. I have encouraged him.”

“Then there is nothing more to be said. Good-by, dear Jacqueline.”

She caught my coat in her eagerness.

“Listen, Dick. It is because of that I telegraphed you. You must help me. I need you. Would you do something for me that was quite useless–that would give you infinite trouble–that would bring you no reward except my thanks?”

126“I think it quite possible,” I said, smiling. “What is it?”

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