destructive than that of the Borgia.  The unities of time and place are preserved by wire and rail in a way which would have delighted the hearts of the old French tragics.  Perhaps men seek dramatic situations in their own lives less readily since they have found out means of making the concluding act more swift, sudden and inevitable.  At all events we all like tragedy less and comedy more than our fathers did, which, I think, shows that we are sadder and possibly wiser men than they.

However this may be, Orsino was no more inclined to fancy himself unhappy than any of his familiar companions, though he was quite willing to believe that he understood most of life’s problems, and especially the heart of woman.  He continued to go into the world, for it was new to him and if he did not find exactly the sort of sympathy he secretly craved, he found at least a great deal of consideration, some flattery and a certain amount of amusement.  But when he was not actually being amused, or really engaged in the work which he had undertaken with so much enthusiasm, he felt lonely and missed Maria Consuelo more than ever.  By this time she had taken a position in society from which there could be no drawing back, and he gave up for ever the hope of seeing her in his own circle.  She seemed to avoid even the grey houses where they might have met on neutral ground, and Orsino saw that his only chance of finding her in the world lay in going frequently and openly to Del Ferice’s house.  He had called on Donna Tullia after the dinner, of course, but he was not prepared to do more, and Del Ferice did not seem to expect it.

Three or four weeks after he had entered into partnership with Andrea Contini, Orsino found himself alone with his mother in the evening.  Corona was seated near the fire in her favourite boudoir, with a book in her hand, and Orsino stood warming himself on one side of the chimney-piece, staring into the flames and occasionally glancing at his mother’s calm, dark face.  He was debating whether he should stay at home or not.

Corona became conscious that he looked at her from time to time and dropped her novel upon her knee.

“Are you going out, Orsino?” she asked.

“I hardly know,” he answered.  “There is nothing particular to do, and it is too late for the theatre.”

“Then stay with me.  Let us talk.”  She looked at him affectionately and pointed to a low chair near her.

He drew it up until he could see her face as she spoke, and then sat down.

“What shall we talk about, mother?” he asked, with a smile.

“About yourself, if you like, my dear.  That is, if you have anything that you know I would like to hear.  I am not curious, am I, Orsino?  I never ask you questions about yourself.”

“No, indeed.  You never tease me with questions—­nor does my father either, for that matter.  Would you really like to know what I am doing?”