Eugene Pickering

He looked up, staring; and then with a deep blush—“That woman?” he said.  “I was not thinking of Madame Blumenthal!”

After this I gave another construction to his melancholy.  Taking him with his hopes and fears, at the end of six weeks of active observation and keen sensation, Pickering was as fine a fellow as need be.  We made our way down to Italy and spent a fortnight at Venice.  There something happened which I had been confidently expecting; I had said to myself that it was merely a question of time.  We had passed the day at Torcello, and came floating back in the glow of the sunset, with measured oar-strokes.  “I am well on the way,” Pickering said; “I think I will go!”

We had not spoken for an hour, and I naturally asked him, Where?  His answer was delayed by our getting into the Piazzetta.  I stepped ashore first and then turned to help him.  As he took my hand he met my eyes, consciously, and it came.  “To Smyrna!”

A couple of days later he started.  I had risked the conjecture that Miss Vernor was a charming creature, and six months afterwards he wrote me that I was right.