Curiosity drives thousands to read what is an insult to humanity, and even though the many are disgusted, some few are found to admire a rhetoric which exalts their own ignorance to the right of judging God.  And still the few increase and grow to be a root and send out shoots and creepers like an evil plant, so that grave men say among themselves that if there is to be a universal war in our times or hereafter it will be fought by Christians of all denominations defending themselves against those who are not Christians.

Marzio sat long at his table, and his modest pint of wine was enough to moisten his throat throughout the time during which he held forth.  When the liquor was finished he rose, took down his overcoat from the peg on which it hung, pushed his soft hat over his eyes, and with a sort of triumphant wave of the hand, saluted his friends and left the room.  He was a perfectly sober man, and no power would have induced him to overstep the narrow limit he allowed to his taste.  Indeed, he did not care for wine itself, and still less for any excitement it produced in his brain.  He ordered his half-litre as a matter of respect for the house, as he called it, and it served to wet his throat while he was talking.  Water would have done as well.  Consumed by the intensity of his hatred for the things he attacked, he needed no stimulant to increase his exaltation.

When he was gone, there was silence in the room for some few minutes.  Then the journalist burst into a loud laugh.

“If we only had half a dozen fellows like that in the Chambers, all talking at once!” he cried.

“They would be kicked into the middle of Montecitorio in a quarter of an hour,” answered the thin voice of the lawyer.  “Our friend Marzio is slightly mad, but he is a good fellow in theory.  In practice that sort of thing must be dropped into public life a little at a time, as one drops vinegar into a salad, on each leaf.  If you don’t, all the vinegar goes to the bottom together, and smells horribly sour.”

While Marzio was holding forth to his friends, the family circle in the Via dei Falegnami was enjoying a very pleasant evening in his absence.  The Signora Pandolfi presided at supper in a costume which lacked elegance, but ensured comfort—­the traditional skirt and white cotton jacket of the Italian housewife.  Lucia wore the same kind of dress, but with less direful effects upon her appearance.  Gianbattista, as usual after working hours, was arrayed in clothes of fashionable cut, aiming at a distant imitation of the imaginary but traditional English tourist.  A murderous collar supported his round young chin, and a very stiffly-constructed pasteboard-lined tie was adorned by an exquisite silver pin of his own workmanship—­the only artistic thing about him.