"I admit nothing, my boy, save that the keenness of the chase is gone." Hillard balanced his watch idly. "As for Kitty, she's a worldly little woman, and can take good care of herself. She is not likely to blunder into any serious conspiracy. Her letter should be sufficient."
"But it isn't. A woman's 'don't' often means 'do.' If Kitty really expects me to search for her and I do not, she will never believe in me again."
"Perhaps your knowledge of women is more extensive than mine," said Hillard, without the least irony.
But this flattery did not appeal to Merrihew. "Bosh! There's something you haven't told me about that makes you so indifferent."
This was a shrewd guess, but Hillard had his reasons for not letting his friend see how close he had shot. "A lady? Grace of Mary, that is droll!" He could not cast this out of his thought. He floated between this phrase and Mrs. Sandford's frank defense of her girlhood friend. Perhaps he was lacking in some particle of chivalry; perhaps he was not in love at all. And of what use to offer faith to one who refused it?
"Time flies," he warned. "Which is it to be?"
"We'll go on to Venice. It would be folly for me to continue the hunt alone. And if you went with me, your half-heartedness would be a damper. We'll go on to Venice."
"Have you any cigars left?" smiling.
"I have thrown away the boxes and filled my pockets."
"That's better. But the Italians are not so severe as the French. We shan't have any trouble recrossing into Italy. All aboard, then."