She stepped on to the Piazzetta thoughtfully.

Her father was at Florian's, perusing letters from France.

'We are to have the marquis here in a week, my child,' he said.

Renee nodded.
Involuntarily she looked at Nevil.

He caught the look, with a lover's quick sense of misfortune in it.
She heard her brother reply to him: 'Who?
the Marquis de Rouaillout?
It is a jolly gaillard of fifty who spoils no fun.' 'You mistake his age, Roland,' she said.
'Forty-nine, then, my sister.' 'He is not that.' 'He looks it.' 'You have been absent.' 'Probably, my arithmetical sister, he has employed the interval to grow younger.