"But how do you know?"
"She cut the rope which fastened her to her guide with a knife."
"Who told you that?"
"The guide told me: I saw the little torn piece of cut rope. I went over all Lilian Temple's last journey," said Lucio gloomily.
Suddenly he threw himself with arms and head on the table, holding to his mouth the post card whereon were written Lilian Temple's last words murmuring with tearless sighs that rent his breast:
"Oh, my love, my love ... at twenty."
Silent, astonished, Vittorio waited till the moment of weak anguish passed. Then he leant towards the man, whose sighs became less, and said to him:
"Lucio, pull yourself together. Let us go away." The electric lamps, which had been suddenly lit, illuminated the terrace; the waiters arrived with linen, glass, and silver to set the tables for dinner, since foreigners and Venetians, on warm evenings, came to dine there in the open air before the sea, where one of the usual orchestras played. There was a coming and going of these waiters, and a rattling of glass and china. In dull, equal, monotonous voice, the Adriatic broke against the shores of the Lido. The wind had fallen.
"Let us go away," repeated Vittorio.
With a rapid movement Lucio started up: his eyes were red, although he had shed no tears, his face seemed feverish. Both approached the exit, crossed the theatre hall and the vestibule, and found themselves at the door. They went out into the island before the large central avenue, where the tramway runs amongst the trees, gardens, and villas. They had not uttered a single word. When once again they were in the open air before the little square where the tramway stops Lucio said shortly: