And he teasingly held it up above her head. But she gave a little jump, caught it, and ran off with it to her room.
"Much regret impossible stop publication. Fifty copies distributed already. Writing."
She dropped speechless on the edge of her bed, the crumpled telegram in her hand. The minutes passed.
"When will you be ready?" said Ashe, tapping at the door.
"Is the gondola there?"
"Waiting at the steps."
"Five minutes!" Ashe departed. She rose, tore the telegram into little bits, and began with deliberation to put on her mantle and hat.
"You've got to go through with it," she said to the white face in the glass, and she straightened her small shoulders defiantly.
They were bound for the Armenian convent. It was a misty day, with shafts of light on the lagoon. The storm had passed, but the water was still rough, and the clouds seemed to be withdrawing their forces only to marshal them again with the darkness. A day of sudden bursts of watery light, of bands of purple distance struck into enchanting beauty by the red or orange of a sail, of a wild salt breath in air that seemed to be still suffused with spray. The Alps were hidden; but what sun there was played faintly on the Euganean hills.