She loosened the handkerchief and withdrew it gently.
Philip Wharton opened his eyes on cool shade, a room hung with raised crimson and white velvet and furnished in a very stately style.
An arched marble window looked on to a blue canal on which the rays of the setting sun sparkled, and in the seat of this window, that was piled with cushions, a lady sat; she wore a great hooped skirt, fluttering with sarcenet ribbons, and in her red-gold locks drooped a red rose.
“As I was saying,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone, “you very soon got tired of me.”
“Carina, no,” answered the Duke. “I have always been in love with you and Venice.”
“You went away. It was the day of the Carnival. I was then wearing an orange cloak with a fringe. It was exactly five days since I had met you. But you cared for me more than for any woman you met in Venice.”
“I love you now,” said Philip Wharton, “for I have come back to you when I am dying.”
She looked at him gravely and stepped out of the window on to the balcony.
“Will you come once more in my gondola?” she asked.
He followed her.