Miss Naylor rejoined with slight severity:  “I cannot conceive that such a thing can pass the human face by, leaving no impression!”

Harz said abruptly:  “There are worse things than murder.”

“Ah! par exemple!” said Sarelli.

There was a slight stir all round the table.

“Verry good,” cried out Herr Paul, “a vot’ sante, cher.”

Miss Naylor shivered, as if some one had put a penny down her back; and Mrs. Decie, leaning towards Harz, smiled like one who has made a pet dog do a trick.  Christian alone was motionless, looking thoughtfully at Harz.

“I saw a man tried for murder once,” he said, “a murder for revenge; I watched the judge, and I thought all the time:  ’I’d rather be that murderer than you; I’ve never seen a meaner face; you crawl through life; you’re not a criminal, simply because you haven’t the courage.’”

In the dubious silence following the painter’s speech, Mr. Treffry could distinctly be heard humming.  Then Sarelli said:  “What do you say to anarchists, who are not men, but savage beasts, whom I would tear to pieces!”

“As to that,” Harz answered defiantly, “it maybe wise to hang them, but then there are so many other men that it would be wise to hang.”

“How can we tell what they went through; what their lives were?” murmured Christian.

Miss Naylor, who had been rolling a pellet of bread, concealed it hastily.  “They are—­always given a chance to—­repent—­I believe,” she said.

“For what they are about to receive,” drawled Dawney.

Mrs. Decie signalled with her fan:  “We are trying to express the inexpressible—­shall we go into the garden?”

All rose; Harz stood by the window, and in passing, Christian looked at him.

He sat down again with a sudden sense of loss.  There was no white figure opposite now.  Raising his eyes he met Sarelli’s.  The Italian was regarding him with a curious stare.

Herr Paul began retailing apiece of scandal he had heard that afternoon.

“Shocking affair!” he said; “I could never have believed it of her!  B—–­is quite beside himself.  Yesterday there was a row, it seems!”

“There has been one every day for months,” muttered Dawney.

“But to leave without a word, and go no one knows where!  B—–­is ‘viveur’ no doubt, mais, mon Dieu, que voulezvous?  She was always a poor, pale thing.  Why! when my—–­” he flourished his cigar; “I was not always—–­what I should have been—–­one lives in a world of flesh and blood—–­we are not all angels—–­que diable!  But this is a very vulgar business.  She goes off; leaves everything—–­without a word; and B—–­is very fond of her.  These things are not done!” the starched bosom of his shirt seemed swollen by indignation.

Mr. Treffry, with a heavy hand on the table, eyed him sideways.  Dawney said slowly: 

“B—–­is a beast; I’m sorry for the poor woman; but what can she do alone?”