The scene-painter appeared to be puzzled by the vehement energy
of the language addressed to him. 'The room is as fresh and sweet

as a room can be,' he answered. As he spoke, he looked back with
astonishment at Francis Westwick, standing outside in the corridor,

and eyeing the interior of the bedchamber with an expression
of undisguised disgust.

The Parisian director approached his English colleague, and looked
at him with grave and anxious scrutiny.

'You see, my friend, here are two of us, with as good noses as yours,
who smell nothing. If you want evidence from more noses, look there!'

He pointed to two little English girls, at play in the corridor.
'The door of my room is wide open--and you know how fast a smell

can travel. Now listen, while I appeal to these innocent noses,
in the language of their own dismal island. My little loves,

do you sniff a nasty smell here--ha?' The children burst out laughing,
and answered emphatically, 'No.' 'My good Westwick,' the Frenchman

resumed, in his own language, 'the conclusion is surely plain?
There is something wrong, very wrong, with your own nose. I recommend you

to see a medical man.'
Having given that advice, he returned to his room, and shut

out the horrid fresh air with a loud exclamation of relief.
Francis left the hotel, by the lanes that led to the Square of St. Mark.

The night-breeze soon revived him. He was able to light a cigar,
and to think quietly over what had happened.

CHAPTER XIX
Avoiding the crowd under the colonnades, Francis walked slowly up

and down the noble open space of the square, bathed in the light
of the rising moon.

Without being aware of it himself, he was a thorough materialist.
The strange effect produced on him by the room--following on the other

strange effects produced on the other relatives of his dead brother--
exercised no perplexing influence over the mind of this sensible man.

'Perhaps,' he reflected, 'my temperament" target="_blank" title="n.气质；性格">temperament is more imaginative than I
supposed it to be--and this is a trick played on me by my own fancy?

Or, perhaps, my friend is right; something is physically amiss with me?
I don't feel ill, certainly. But that is no safe criterion sometimes.

I am not going to sleep in that abominable room to-night--
I can well wait till to-morrow to decide whether I shall speak

to a doctor or not. In the mean time, the hotel doesn't seem likely
to supply me with the subject of a piece. A terrible smell from an

invisible ghost is a perfectly new idea. But it has one drawback.
If I realise it on the stage, I shall drive the audience out of

the theatre.'
As his strong common sense arrived at this facetious conclusion,

he became aware of a lady, dressed entirely in black, who was
observing him with marked attention. 'Am I right in supposing

you to be Mr. Francis Westwick?' the lady asked, at the moment
when he looked at her.

'That is my name, madam. May I inquire to whom I have the honour
of speaking?'

'We have only met once,' she answered a little evasively, 'when your late
brother introduced me to the members of his family. I wonder if you

have quite forgotten my big black eyes and my hideous complexion?'
She lifted her veil as she spoke, and turned so that the moonlight

rested on her face.
Francis recognised at a glance the woman of all others whom

he most cordially disliked--the widow of his dead brother,
the first Lord Montbarry. He frowned as he looked at her.

His experience on the stage, gathered at innumerable rehearsals
with actresses who had sorely tried his temper, had accustomed

him to speak roughly to women who were distasteful to him.
'I remember you,' he said. 'I thought you were in America!'

She took no notice of his ungracious tone and manner; she simply
stopped him when he lifted his hat, and turned to leave her.

'Let me walk with you for a few minutes,' she quietly replied.
'I have something to say to you.'

He showed her his cigar. 'I am smoking,'he said.
'I don't mind smoking.'

After that, there was nothing to be done (short of downright brutality)
but to yield. He did it with the worst possible grace.

'Well?' he resumed. 'What do you want of me?'
'You shall hear directly, Mr. Westwick. Let me first

tell you what my position is. I am alone in the world.
To the loss of my husband has now been added another bereavement,

the loss of my companion in America, my brother--Baron Rivar.'
The reputation of the Baron, and the doubt which scandal had thrown on

his assumed relationship to the Countess, were well known to Francis.
'Shot in a gambling-saloon?' he asked brutally.

'The question is a perfectly natural one on your part,' she said,
with the impenetrably ironical manner which she could assume on

certain occasions. 'As a native of horse-racing England, you belong
to a nation of gamblers. My brother died no extraordinary death,

Mr. Westwick. He sank, with many other unfortunate people,
under a fever prevalent in a Western city which we happened to visit.

The calamity of his loss made the United States unendurable to me.
I left by the first steamer that sailed from New York--a French vessel

which brought me to Havre. I continued my lonely journey to the South
of France. And then I went on to Venice.'

'What does all this matter to me?' Francis thought to himself.
She paused, evidently expecting him to say something. 'So you have come

to Venice?' he said carelessly" target="_blank" title="ad.粗心地；疏忽地">carelessly. 'Why?'
'Because I couldn't help it,' she answered.

Francis looked at her with cynicalcuriosity. 'That sounds odd,'
he remarked. 'Why couldn't you help it?'

'Women are accustomed to act on impulse,' she explained.
'Suppose we say that an impulse has directed my journey? And yet,

this is the last place in the world that I wish to find myself in.
Associations that I detest are connected with it in my mind.

If I had a will of my own, I would never see it again.
I hate Venice. As you see, however, I am here. When did you

meet with such an unreasonable woman before? Never, I am sure!'
She stopped, eyed him for a moment, and suddenly altered her tone.

'When is Miss Agnes Lockwood expected to be in Venice?'
she asked.

It was not easy to throw Francis off his balance,
but that extraordinary question did it. 'How the

devil did you know that Miss Lockwood was coming to Venice?' he exclaimed.
She laughed--a bitter mocking laugh. 'Say, I guessed it!'

Something in her tone, or perhaps something in the audacious
defiance of her eyes as they rested on him, roused the quick

temper that was in Francis Warwick. 'Lady Montbarry--!' he began.
'Stop there!' she interposed. 'Your brother Stephen's wife calls

herself Lady Montbarry now. I share my title with no woman.
Call me by my name before I committed the fatal mistake of marrying

your brother. Address me, if you please, as Countess Narona.'
'Countess Narona,' Francis resumed, 'if your object in claiming

my acquaintance is to mystify me, you have come to the wrong man.
Speak plainly, or permit me to wish you good evening.'

'If your object is to keep Miss Lockwood's arrival in Venice a secret,'
she retorted, 'speak plainly, Mr. Westwick, on your side,

and say so.'
Her intention was evidently to irritate him; and she succeeded.

'Nonsense!' he broke out petulantly. 'My brother's travelling
arrangements are secrets to nobody. He brings Miss Lockwood here,

with Lady Montbarry and the children. As you seem so well informed,
perhaps you know why she is coming to Venice?'

The Countess had suddenly become grave and thoughtful. She made no reply.
The two strangely associated companions, having reached one extremity

of the square, were now standing before the church of St. Mark.
The moonlight was bright enough to show the architecture

of the grand cathedral in its wonderful variety of detail.
Even the pigeons of St. Mark were visible, in dark closely packed rows,