Julius Batiscombe was a restless man by day and night, after the trip to Castellamare. Marcantonio called upon him, but he was out, and then he received an invitation to dinner from Leonora, with a postscript about the unlucky baskets. He accepted the invitation. What else could he do?

But when the day came he regretted it. He wished he had refused and had gone away. Then he made a fine resolution.

"I will not go to this dinner," he said to himself, savagely, as he walked quickly up and down his room. "I will not go near her again. It is not right, and I will not do it. I will sail over to Naples at once, and send back a telegram of excuse, saying that a matter of the most urgent importance keeps me there. So it is—I should think so—a matter of very urgent importance. Oh! Julius Batiscombe, what an ass you are, to be sure!" With that he crammed some things into a bag, sent for his man, and descended in hot haste to the shore. There was no time to be lost, for it was already four o'clock in the afternoon and the invitation was for eight. He could just reach Naples and send his telegram in time to prevent the Carantoni from waiting for him.

The lazy breeze was dying away, and he wished he had had the sense to make up his mind sooner. But his men rowed lustily, and kept time, so that the boat spun along fairly enough.

"I shall do it," said Julius Batiscombe to himself.

He was happy enough in the sensation that he was cheating his fate and was about to escape a serious affection. Then he laughed at the comic side of the case, and lit a cigar and blew great clouds of smoke over his shoulder. But fate and Batiscombe were old enemies, and fate generally got the better of it.

It chanced that on this very day Leonora and Marcantonio had determined to go out in the new boat. For Marcantonio had wanted to give his wife a surprise, and had got from Naples a beautiful clean-built launch. He had said nothing about it, and had patiently borne her reproaches at his indifference to sailing, until on the previous evening he had taken her down the descent to the rocks and had shown her his purchase, which had just arrived by the steamer. Of course she was enchanted, and determined to make the most of it, for she was really fond of the water. Accordingly, on this very day, she and her husband sallied forth with six men,—for he had not dared to give her a smaller crew than Mr. Batiscombe's. She was in such a hurry to go that she said she did not mind the sun in the least,—oh dear, no! she rather liked it. And so it came to pass that a few minutes after Julius had given his men the word to fall to their oars at the little beach of the town of Sorrento, a long low craft, painted in dark green and gold, and looking exceedingly trim and "fit" with its long lateen yards and raking masts, shot out from the cleft beneath Leonora's villa.

Batiscombe looked straight before him, steering by the Naples shore, and intent on wasting neither time nor distance. He might have been out half an hour or more when a remark from one of his crew made him look round, and he was aware of a dark green boat two or three hundred yards astern, but rapidly pulling up to him. He started, for though he could not see the faces of the occupants, he recognised a parasol that Leonora had taken to Castellamare.

"It is the new boat of the Marchese Carantoni," said the sailor who had first spoken to Batiscombe. The man had seen it arrive by the steamer on the previous evening, and had helped to put it into the water to be rowed down to the villa. Batiscombe gave one more look and groaned inwardly. He would make a fight for it, though, he thought. He encouraged his men not to allow themselves to be overtaken by a parcel of Neapolitans, as he derisively called the crew of Carantoni's boat. His own men were tough fellows from the north of Italy, bearded, and broad, and bronzed; but his boat, built for rougher weather and rougher work than pleasure-rowing in the bay of Naples, was twice as heavy as the slight green craft astern. His sturdy men set their teeth and tugged hard, but the others gained on them.

Leonora and Marcantonio had recognised the cut of Batiscombe's boat and crew from a distance; and, in profound ignorance of his amiable intentions of flight, they imagined nothing more amusing than to race him.

"If we cannot beat him," said Leonora, breathless with excitement, "I will never come out in your boat again!"

She strained her eyes to make out if they were gaining way. Marcantonio spoke to the men:—

The men repeated the rhyme to each other with a grin, and bent hard to their work. They were not Neapolitans as Batiscombe called them, but strong-backed, slim fishermen from the southern coast, as dark as Arabs and as merry as thieves, enjoying a race of all things best in the world, and well able to row it. Swiftly the dark green boat crept up to her rival, and soon Batiscombe could hear the remarks of the men. His own crew did their best, but it was a hopeless case.

"Monsieur Batiscombe, Monsieur Batiscombe," shouted Marcantonio, almost as much excited as his wife, "we shall conquer you immediately!"

Julius turned and waved his hat, and made a gesture of submission. A few lengths more and they were beside him. He raised his hand, and his men hung on their oars.

"Kismet! it is my portion," he said to himself as he gave up the fight.

"But where are you going in such a hurry, Mr. Batiscombe?" asked Leonora, who was delighted at having won the race. "You see it is no use running away; we can catch you so easily."

"Yes," said Batiscombe, laughing recklessly at the hidden truth of her words, "I see it is of no use, but I tried hard. It was a good race."

He turned in his seat and leaned over, looking at his friends. The boats drifted together, and the men held them side by side, unshipping their oars. Batiscombe admired the whole turnout, and complimented Leonora upon it. Marcantonio was pleased with everything and everybody; he was delighted that his wife should have had the small satisfaction of victory, and he was proud that his boat had fulfilled his expectations. So they floated along side by side, saying the pleasantest manner of things possible to each other. Time flew by, and presently they turned homewards.

"I wonder how long it will be," thought Batiscombe as he held the tiller hard over and his boat swung about, "before I tell her where I was going 'in such a hurry'?" And he smiled in a grim sort of irony at himself, for he knew that he was lost.

"Eight o'clock—don't forget!" cried Leonora. She had a pleasant voice that carried far over the water. Batiscombe waved his hat, and smiled and bowed. They were soon separated, and their courses became more and more divergent as they neared the land.

Batiscombe swore a little over his dressing, quite quietly and to himself, but he bestowed much care upon his appearance. He knew just how much always depends on appearance at the outset, and how little it is to be relied on at a later stage. So he gave an unusual amount of thought to his tie, and was extremely fastidious about the flower in his coat.

As for Leonora, she was on the point of a change of mood. She had been very gay and happy all day long, and the adventure with the boat had still further raised her spirits. But that was all the more reason why they should sink again before long, for her humours were mostly of short duration, though of strong impulse. This evening she felt as though there were something the matter, or as though something were going to happen, and her gayety seemed to be the least bit fictitious to herself. She and her husband stood on the terrace in the sunset, awaiting their guest.

"My dear," said Marcantonio, "I am in despair. I shall be obliged to go to Rome to-morrow or the next day. My uncle, the cardinal, writes me that it is very important." Leonora's face fell; she had a sharp little sense of pain.

"Oh, Marcantoine," she said, "do not go away now!"

"It is only for a day or two, my angel," he said, drawing her arm through his.

"Must you really go?" she asked, not looking at him.

"HÉlas, yes."

"Then I will go with you," said she, in a determined tone.

"Ah, I thank you for the wish, chÉrie," he answered. "But you will tire yourself, and be so hot and uncomfortable. See, I will only be away a day and a half."

"But I do not want to be alone here without you," she pleaded. She could not for her life have told why she was so distressed at the idea, but it gave her pain, and she insisted.

"As you wish," said Marcantonio, kissing her hand. "I will make every arrangement for your comfort, and do what I can to make the journey pleasant."

He was a little surprised, but, manlike, he was flattered at his wife's show of affection. There are moments in a woman's life when, whether she loves her husband or not, she turns to him and holds to him with an instinctive sense of reliance.

A moment later Julius Batiscombe was announced, and the three went in to dinner. It was a strange position, though it is by no means an uncommon one. A man, his wife, and another man, an outsider; the outsider loving the woman, the husband supremely happy and unconscious, and the woman feeling the evil influence, not altogether opposing it, and yet clinging desperately to her husband's love. Three lives, all trembling in the balance of weal and woe. But no one could have suspected it from their appearance, for they were apparently the gayest and most thoughtless of mortals.

The adventure in the afternoon, the expedition to Castellamare, the baskets and even the cook,—then, the events of the past winter, their many mutual acquaintances, and the whole unfathomable cyclopÆdia of society facts and fictions,—everything was reviewed in turn, and talked of with witty comments, good-natured or ill-natured as the case might be. Batiscombe was full of strange stories, generally about people they all knew, but he was not a gossip by nature, and he avoided saying disagreeable things. Leonora, on the other hand, would be gay and brilliant for a few moments, and then would let fall some bitter saying that sounded oddly to Batiscombe, though it made her husband laugh.

"You would have us believe you terribly disillusioned, Marchesa," said Batiscombe, after one of these sallies. Leonora laughed, and her eyes flashed again as she looked at him across the table.

"You, who are so fond of Eastern magic," she said, "should give back to this age all the illusions we have lost."

"Were I to do so," answered Batiscombe, looking into her eyes as he spoke, "I fear that you, who are so fond of Western philosophy, would tear them all to pieces."

"My poor philosophy," exclaimed Leonora, "you will not let it alone. You seem to think it is to blame for everything,—as if one could not try, ever so humbly, to learn a little something for one's self, without being always held up for it as an exception to the whole human race. It is as if I were to attribute everything you say and do to the fact of your having written a book—how many—two? three?" She laughed gayly. "I do not know," she continued, "and I will never read anything more that you write, because you laugh at my philosophy."

"It is better to laugh at it than to cry at it," said Marcantonio, without meaning anything.

"Why should I cry at it?" asked Leonora quickly. Her husband did not know how honestly she had shed tears and made herself miserable over it all.

"You laugh now," he answered, "but imagine a little. All philosophers are old and hideous, and wear"—

"For goodness' sake, Marchese," broke in Batiscombe, "do not paint the devil on the wall, as the Germans say."

"The Germans need not paint the devil," retorted Marcantonio, irrelevantly. "They need only look into the glass." He hated the whole race.

"You might as well say that Italians need not go to the theatre," put in Leonora, "because they are all actors." Her husband laughed good-humouredly.

"You might as well say," said Batiscombe, "that Englishmen need not keep horses because they are all donkeys. But please do not say it."

"No," said Leonora, "we will spare you. But you might say anything in the world of that kind. It has no bearing on my philosophy."

"That is true," answered Marcantonio. "I said that philosophers were old and hideous, but not that they were devils, actors, or donkeys. You suggest the idea. I think they are probably all three."

"Provided you do not think so after I have become a philosopher," said Leonora, "you may think what you please at present, mon ami."

"I think that you are altogether the most charming woman in the world," replied her husband, looking at her affectionately.

"Is it permitted to remark that the Marchese is not alone in that opinion?" inquired Batiscombe, politely.

"No," said Leonora, demurely, "it is not permitted. And observe that an English husband would not say that kind of thing in public, mon cher."

"Perhaps because they do not believe it in private," objected Marcantonio.

"More likely for the reason I suggested," observed Batiscombe, "that we are all donkeys."

"All?" asked Leonora. "But some of you are authors"—

"It is the same thing," said Batiscombe.

"Mon Dieu! there are times"—began Marcantonio.

"When you believe it?" inquired Batiscombe, laughing.

"Ah, no! you are unkind; but times when I should like to be an Englishman."

"I have heard of such people," said Batiscombe, gravely, "but I have never met one. You interest me, Marchese."

"You must not be so terribly disloyal," said Leonora. "You know I am English, too,—at least, I was," she added, looking at Marcantonio.

"Precisely," said he. "The wife takes the nationality of the husband."

"I am not disloyal," answered Batiscombe. "I am very glad to be an Englishman, but I cannot fancy any one else wishing to be one. I should think every one would be perfectly contented with his own country. I cannot imagine wanting to change my nationality any more than my person."

"Evidently, you are well satisfied," said Leonora.

"Perfectly, thank you, for the present. When I am tired of myself I will retire gracefully—or perhaps gracelessly; but I will retire. I am sure I should never find another personality half as much in sympathy with my ideas."

As they followed Leonora from the dining-room out upon the terrace, Batiscombe watched her intently. There was a strength and ease about her carriage that pleased his strong love of life and beauty. He noticed what he had hardly noticed before, that her figure was a marvel of proportion,—no wasp-waisted impossibility of lacing and high shoulders, but strong and lithe, and instinct with elastic motion. He had seen her lately always in some wrap, or lace, or mazy summer garment, whereas this evening she was clad in close silk of a deep-red colour, with the least possible trimming or marring line. The masses of her hair, too, rich in red lights and deep shadows, were coiled close to her noble head, and her dazzling throat just showed at the square cutting of her dress.

"People must be wonderfully mistaken," thought Batiscombe. "She is certainly, undeniably a great beauty, in her very peculiar way. Gad! I should think so indeed!" which was the strongest expression of affirmation in Julius Batiscombe's vocabulary.

It was no wonder she attracted him. For nearly two months he had been wandering, chiefly in his boat on the salt water, and in that time he had not so much as spoken to a woman. His conversation had been with himself during all that time; and if he had enjoyed intensely the freedom of heart and thought in the intellectual point of view, his strong nature, always drawn to women when not plunged deep in work or adventure, could not withstand the sudden magnetism now thrown upon it. He knew and felt the evil of it, and he struggled as best he could, but each fresh meeting made the chances of escape fewer and the danger more desperate.

"Marry," said his best friend to him, when, now and then, in the course of years, they met.

"How can I marry?" he would ask. "How can I ever hope to love one woman again as a woman deserves to be loved?"

"Then go into a monastery and do no more mischief," returned the friend. She was a woman.

"I am no saint," Julius would say, "but I will try to be." And ever he tried and failed again.

They sat upon the terrace in the cool of the early night, with their coffee and their cigarettes. There was a lull in their conversation, the result of having talked so much at table.

"A propos of contentment," said Marcantonio, "we are very discontented people. We are going to Rome to-morrow, or the next day."

Batiscombe was surprised. He paused with his coffee cup in one hand and his cigarette in the other, as though expecting more.

"Of course it is only for a day or two," continued Marcantonio. "We shall return immediately."

"Seriously, Marcantoine," said Leonora, "how long shall we have to stay?"

"Oh—not very long," he said. "I will get the letter. Monsieur Batiscombe will pardon me?" Batiscombe murmured something polite and Marcantonio rose quickly and entered the house.

"Are you really going so soon?" Julius asked in English, when they were alone, and Leonora could see the light in his eyes as he spoke. She looked away, over the starlit sea.

"I am not quite sure," she said. "I think I ought to go."

"I hope you will not," said Batiscombe boldly. She turned and looked at him again, with a little surprise in her face. Marcantonio came back,—it was only a step to his study.

"Here it is," said Marcantonio, sitting down. "He says he thinks that a day should do, if I could be with him all the time. You see, he is old and wishes to put his affairs in order."

"I cannot see"—began Leonora, but stopped.

"Enfin," said Marcantonio, "it might happen to any one, I should think."

"Let us hope it may happen to all of us," remarked Batiscombe, for the sake of saying something.

When it came to parting, Batiscombe made some polite remark about the pleasure he had enjoyed.

"When do you go?" he asked, as he shook hands with Marcantonio.

"I think we will go to-morrow night,—n'est-ce-pas, LÉonore?" He turned to his wife, as though inquiring. She looked up from her seat in her deep, cane arm-chair.

"To-morrow night? Oh yes—one day is like another—let us go then to-morrow night."

She spoke indifferently enough, as was natural. Batiscombe supposed she meant to go. He took his leave with many wishes to his hosts for a pleasant journey.

Marcantonio lighted a cigarette and stood looking out over the water, by his wife's side. She was quite silent, and fanned herself indolently with a little straw fan decked with ribbons.

"Will you really go to-morrow night?" asked Marcantonio at last. He had a way of dwelling on things that wearied Leonora. What possible difference could it make whether they went to-morrow, or the day after? "Because," he continued, "if you will be ready, I will make arrangements."

"What arrangements?" asked Leonora languidly.

"I will write to the cardinal to say I am coming,—one must do that."

"You can telegraph."

"What is the use, when there is time for writing? Why should one waste a franc in a telegram?" He had curious little economies of his own.

"A franc!" she exclaimed with a little laugh.

"And besides," he continued, not heeding her remark, "old gentlemen do not like to receive telegrams. It gives on their nerves."

"Enfin," said she, weary of the question, "you can write that you will go to-morrow night, if you like."

"And you—will you go then?" he asked.

"It depends," she answered. "I may be too tired."

Marcantonio knew very well that his wife was not easily fatigued; but he said nothing, and by his silence closed the discussion. She was very changeable, he thought; but then, he loved her very much, and she had a right to be as changeable as she pleased. It was very good of her to have wanted to go at all, and he would not think of pressing her to it. He was a very sensible and unimaginative man, not at all given to thinking about things he could not see, nor troubling himself about them in the least. So he did not press Leonora now, and did not make himself unhappy because she was a little changeable. The one thing he really objected to was her pursuance of what he considered fruitless objects of study; she had not opened a book of philosophy since their marriage, and he was perfectly satisfied. Before he went to bed he wrote a line to his uncle, Cardinal Carantoni, to say that he should arrive on the next day but one.

Batiscombe strolled back to the town through the narrow lanes, fenced into right and left by high walls. His thoughts were agreeable enough, and he now and then hummed snatches of tunes with evident satisfaction. What a magnificent creature she was! And clever too,—at least she looked intelligent, and said very cutting things, as though she could say many more if she liked; and she knew about most things that were discussed, and was altogether exactly what her husband called her,—the most charming woman in the world. Besides, he thought he could make a friend of her. How foolish of him, he reflected, to suppose that very afternoon that he must needs fall in love with her! Where was the necessity? He had evidently been mistaken, too, about her relations with her husband. It was clear that they adored each other, could not be separated for a moment, since when he went to Rome on business she must needs accompany him,—in July, too! Would she go? Probably. At all events, he would not call for a week, when they would certainly have come back. This he thought as he walked home.

But when he sat in his room at the hotel he remembered what he had thought as he followed her out of the dining-room. He had not thought then as he had an hour later. The magnetism of her glorious vitality had been upon him, and he had envied Marcantonio with all his heart, right sinfully.

"Some people call women changeable," he reflected as he blew out his candles; "they are not half so changeable as we are, and some day I will write a book to prove it."