"As you wish, of course!" he said quietly. "I suppose my conduct seems quite unpardonable."
For one fleeting second an impulse—a desire—crossed Clodagh's face; but as it trembled on the brink of utterance, Gore leant forward in his seat and gave a quick, imperative order to the gondolier. A moment later they had glided up a narrow waterway and emerged again upon the Grand Canal.
From the door and windows of Clodagh's hotel, a stream of light was still pouring out upon the water. As they drew level with the terrace, she turned her face away from this searching radiance, and rose quickly to her feet.
"Good-night," she said in an almost inarticulate voice—"good-night! Don't stir! Don't help me!"
But Gore had risen also. And in a sudden return of his earlier, more impulsive manner, he forgot the self-consciousness that had chilled him.
"Mrs. Milbanke——" he said quickly.
But Clodagh evaded his eyes; and with a sharp nervous movement, shook her head.
"No!" she said—"no! Don't help me! I don't want help!"
Stepping past him with an agile movement, she ran up the steps, and across the terrace to the door of the hotel.
Obeying a dominant impulse, Gore turned to follow her. But as his foot touched the side of the boat, he paused, drew slowly back, and dropped into his former seat.