In the afternoon Lawrence and Severance were dawdling over coffee in
the Piazza. A strident band sent up voluminous notes that boomed back
and forth between the palace and the stone arches of the procurate.
"And Burano?" Lawrence suggested, idly. The older man nodded.
"We lunched there--convent--Miss Barton bought lace."
He broke the pause by adding, negligently:
"I think I shall marry her."
Lawrence smoked; he could see the blue water about San Giorgio.
"Marry her," he repeated, vaguely. "You are engaged?"
Severance nodded.
The young man reached out a bony hand. One had but to wait to still the
problems of life. They strolled across the piazza.
"When do you leave?" Severance inquired.
"To-night," almost slipped from the young man's lips. He was murmuring
to himself. "I have played with Venice and lost. I must return to my
busy village."
"I can't tell," he said.