The two men raised their hats.
* * * * *
For a few moments the man and the woman sat without words, until the gondola cleared the Fondamenta Nuova, and they were well out in the sea of moonlight. Ahead of them lay the stucco walls of the Cimeterio, glowing softly in the white light. Some dark spots were moving out from the city mass to their right, heading for the silent island.
"There goes the conclusion," Lawrence nodded to the funeral boats.
"But between us and them lies a space of years—life."
"Who decided?"
"You looked. It was decided."
The city detached itself insensibly from them, lying black behind. A light wind came down from Treviso, touching the white waves.
"You are thinking that back there, up the Grand Canal, lie fame and accomplishment. You are thinking that now you have your fata morgana—nothing else. You are already preparing a grave for her in your mind!"
Lawrence took her head in his hands. "Never," he shot out the word. "Never—you are mine; I have come all these ocean miles to find you. I have come for an accounting with the vision that troubles man." Her face drew nearer.