By the time of the Stella’s arrival, the viscontesse had completed all arrangements for the year’s enforced absence; and a few hours after the yacht’s anchor was dropped it was weighed again and I was taking a farewell look at the city.
Miralda and her mother were below and Pia was with them. She was to sail for America from Southampton.
I was heartily glad to go. It had been a strenuous love quest, but all the trouble and the dangers were forgotten in that joyous hour of success, in the glowing consciousness that I had won the woman I loved, and the thrilling realization of my hopes.
As I stood dreaming of the happiness to come, there was the soft rustle of a skirt and a hand was slipped into my arm.
“You are glad to go, Ralph?” asked Miralda. “You were smiling.”
“I was thinking of my fellow passenger,” I whispered. “And she is smiling, too.”
But her eyes were very thoughtful behind the smile. It was natural. All her young life had been passed in the city she was leaving.
She turned her eyes from me, let them roam over the glorious panorama of the city and the hills beyond, and then turned to me again. “I was trying to think if I have any regrets. I have not. I have not in all my heart a thought that is not wholly happy at being with you. But it has been my home.”
“I know,” I said, understanding; and I took her hand and pressed my lips to it. “You will grow to love the new home, and it shall be one of peace and content and, so far as I can ensure it, of happiness.”
“Is that all?” she asked, with half mischievous, half wistful glance.