The more he reflected upon the situation, the more angry he grew, and when he reached the door of the club he was in a humour to quarrel with everything and everybody.  Fortunately, at that early hour, the place was in the sole possession of half a dozen old gentlemen whose conversation diverted his thoughts though it was the very reverse of edifying.  Between the stories they told and the considerable number of cigarettes he smoked while listening to them he was almost restored to his normal frame of mind by midnight, when four or five of his usual companions straggled in and proposed baccarat.  After his recent successes he could not well refuse to play, so he sat down rather reluctantly with the rest.  Oddly enough he did not lose, though he won but little.

“Lucky at play, unlucky in love,” laughed one of the men carelessly.

“What do you mean?” asked Orsino, turning sharply upon the speaker.

“Mean?  Nothing,” answered the latter in great surprise.  “What is the matter with you, Orsino?  Cannot one quote a common proverb?”

“Oh—­if you meant nothing, let us go on,” Orsino answered gloomily.

As he took up the cards again, he heard a sigh behind him and turning round saw that Spicca was standing at his shoulder.  He was shocked by the melancholy count’s face, though he was used to meeting him almost every day.  The haggard and cadaverous features, the sunken and careworn eyes, contrasted almost horribly with the freshness and gaiety of Orsino’s companions, and the brilliant light in the room threw the man’s deadly pallor into strong relief.

“Will you play, Count?” asked Orsino, making room for him.

“Thanks—­no.  I never play nowadays,” answered Spicca quietly.

He turned and left the room.  With all his apparent weakness his step was not unsteady, though it was slower than in the old days.

“He sighed in that way because we did not quarrel,” said the man whose quoted proverb had annoyed Orsino.

“I am ready and anxious to quarrel with everybody to-night,” answered Orsino.  “Let us play baccarat—­that is much better.”

Spicca left the club alone and walked slowly homewards to his small lodging in the Via della Croce.  A few dying embers smouldered in the little fireplace which warmed his sitting-room.  He stirred them slowly, took a stick of wood from the wicker basket, hesitated a moment, and then put it back again instead of burning it.  The night was not cold and wood was very dear.  He sat down under the light of the old lamp which stood upon the mantelpiece, and drew a long breath.  But presently, putting his hand into the pocket of his overcoat in search of his cigarette case, he drew out something else which he had almost forgotten, a small something wrapped in coarse paper.  He undid it and looked at the little frame of chiselled brass which Donna Tullia had found him buying in the afternoon, turning it over and over, absently, as though thinking of something else.