So the aunt hurried away to the other end of the campo and Miss Greysteel walked slowly on to the little white bridge that stood just by the church, fretfully poking the point of her white parasol between the white paving stones and murmuring to herself, “I have seen enough. Oh, I have seen quite enough!” The repetition of this mysterious exclamation did not appear to afford her spirits much relief – indeed it only served to make her more melancholy, and to make her sigh more frequently.

“You are very quiet today,” said Strange suddenly. She was startled. She had not known he was so close by.

“Am I? I was not aware of it.” But she then gave her attention to the view and was silent for several moments. Strange leant back against the bridge, folded his arms and looked very intently at her.

“Quiet,” he repeated, “and a little sad, I think. And so, you know, I must talk to you.”

This made her smile in spite of herself. “Must you?” she said. But then the very act of smiling and of speaking to him seemed to give her pain and so she sighed and looked away again.

“Indeed. Because, whenever I am melancholy you talk to me of cheerful things and cure my low spirits and so I must now do the same for you. That is what friendship is.”

“Openness and honesty, Mr Strange. Those are the best foundations for friendship, I think.”

“Oh! You think me secretive. I see by your face that you do. You may be right, but I … That is … No, I dare say you are right. It is not, I suppose, a profession that encourages …”

Miss Greysteel interrupted him. “I did not mean a fling at your profession. Not at all. All professions have their different sorts of discretion. That, I think, is quite understood.”

“Then I do not understand you.”

“It is no matter. We should rejoin my aunt and papa.”

“No, wait, Miss Greysteel, it will not do. Who else will put me right, when I am going wrong, if not you? Tell me – whom do you think I deceive?”

Miss Greysteel was silent a moment and then, with some reluctance, said, “Your friend of last night, perhaps?”

“My friend of last night! What do you mean?”

Miss Greysteel looked very unhappy. “The young woman in the gondola who was so anxious to speak to you and so unwilling – for a full half hour – that any one else should.”

“Ah!” Strange smiled and shook his head. “No, you have run away with a wrong idea. She is not my friend. She is Lord Byron’s.”

“Oh! …” Miss Greysteel reddened a little. “She seemed rather an agitated young person.”

“She is not best pleased with his lordship’s behaviour.” Strange shrugged. “Who is? She wished to discover if I were able to influence his lordship and I was at some pains to persuade her that there is not now, nor ever was, I think, magic enough in England to do that.”