"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-bye, they have with them the Marble Bride."
"The which?" asked Mr. Stafford.
"The Marble Bride, the Princess Frostina; otherwise Miss Aileen Jocyln, of Jocyln Hall Devonshire. You knew the old colonel, I think; he died over a year ago, you remember."
"Ah, yes! I remember. Is she here with the Howards, and as handsome as ever, no doubt?"