She abhorred him!—but the thought that he was in Venice burned deep into senses and imagination. Should she tell William she had seen him? No, no! She would stand by herself, protect herself!
So she stole back to bed, and lay there wakeful, starting guiltily at William's every movement. If he knew what had happened!—what she was thinking of! Why on earth should he? It would be monstrous to harass him on his holiday—with all these political affairs on his mind.
Then suddenly—by an association of ideas—she sat up shivering, her hands pressed to her breast. The telegram—the book! Oh, but of course she had been in time!—of course! Why, she had offered the man two hundred pounds! She lay down laughing at herself—forcing herself to try and sleep.
XIX
Sir Richard Lyster unfolded his Times with a jerk.
"A beastly rheumatic hole I call this," he said, looking angrily at the window of his hotel sitting-room, which showed drops from a light shower then passing across the lagoon. "And the dilatoriness of these Italian posts is, upon my soul, beyond bearing! This Times is three days old."
Mary Lyster looked up from the letter she was writing.
"Why don't you read the French papers, papa? I saw a Figaro of yesterday in the Piazza this morning."
"Because I can't!" was the indignant reply. "There wasn't the same amount of money squandered on my education, my dear, that there has been on yours."