"Oh, gay we row where full tides flow
And bear our bounding pinnace;
And leap along where song meets song,
Across the waves of Venice."
The singer, a tall young man, with a florid face, and yellow side whiskers, an unmistakable son of the "right little, tight little" island, paused in his song, as another man, stepping through an open window, struck him an airy sledge-hammer slap on the back.
"I ought to know that voice," said the last comer.
"Mortimer, my lad, how goes it?"
"Stafford!" cried the singer, seizing the outstretched hand in a genuine English grip, "happy to meet you, old boy, in the land of romance! La Fabre told me you were coming—but who would look for you so soon? I thought you were doing Sorrento?"
"Got tired of Sorrento," said Stafford, taking his arm for a walk up and down the piazza; "there's a fever there, too—quite an epidemic—malignant typhus. Discretion is the better part of valor, where Sorrento fevers are concerned. I left."
"When did you reach Venice?" asked Mortimer, lighting a cigar.
"An hour ago; and now who's here? Any one I know?"
"Lots. The Cholmonadeys, the Lythons, the Howards, of Leighwood; and, by-the-by, they have with them the Marble Bride."
"The which?" asked Mr. Stafford.