Brook,” she said, quietly enough, as he took it.

“Good-bye,” he murmured in a low voice, but distinctly.

Their hands stayed together after they had spoken, and still she looked up to him in the moonlight. Suddenly he bent down and kissed her on the forehead—in an odd, hasty way.

“I’m sorry, Fan, but it won’t do,” he said.

“Again!” she answered. “Once more, please!” And she held up her face.

He kissed her again, but less hastily, Clare thought, as she watched them. Then, without another word, they walked towards the hotel, side by side, close together, so that their hands almost touched. When they were not ten paces   from the door, they stopped again and looked at each other.

At that moment Clare saw her mother’s dark figure on the threshold. The pair must have heard her steps, for they separated a little and instantly went on, passing Mrs. Bowring quickly. Clare sat still in her place, waiting for her mother to come to her. She feared lest, if she moved, the two might come back for an instant, see her, and understand that they had been watched. Mrs. Bowring went forward a few steps.

“Clare!” she called.

“Yes,” answered the young girl softly. “Here I am.”

“Oh—I could not see you at all,” said her mother. “Come down into the moonlight.”

The young girl descended the steps, and the two began to walk up and down together on the platform.

“Those were two of the people from the yacht that I met at the door,” said Mrs. Bowring. “The lady in white serge, and that good-looking young man.”

“Yes,” Clare answered. “They were here some time. I don’t think they saw me.”

She had meant to tell her mother something of what had happened, in the hope of being told that she had done right in not revealing her presence. But on second thoughts she resolved   to say nothing about it. To have told the story would have seemed like betraying a confidence, even though they were strangers to her.

“I could not help wondering about them this afternoon,” said Mrs. Bowring. “She ordered him about in a most extraordinary way, as though he had been her servant. I thought it in very bad taste, to say the least of it. Of course I don’t know anything about their relations, but it struck me that she wished to show him off, as her possession.”

“Yes,” answered Clare, thoughtfully. “I thought so too.”

“Very foolish of her! No man will stand that sort of thing long. That isn’t the way to treat a man in order to keep him.”

“What is the best way?” asked the young girl idly, with a little laugh.

“Don’t ask me!” answered Mrs. Bowring quickly, as they turned in their walk. “But I should think—” she added, a moment later, “I don’t know—but I should think—” she hesitated.

“What?” inquired Clare, with some curiosity.

“Well, I was going to say, I should think that a man would wish to feel that he is holding, not that he is held. But then people are so different! One can never tell. At all events,   it is foolish to wish to show everybody that you own a man, so to say.”

Mrs. Bowring seemed to be considering the question, but she evidently found nothing more to say about it, and they walked up and down in silence for a long time, each occupied with her own thoughts. Then all at once there was a sound of many voices speaking English, and trying to give orders in Italian, and the words “Good-bye, Brook!” sounded several times above the rest. Little by little, all grew still again.

“They are gone at last,” said Mrs. Bowring, with a sigh of relief.