“Take a glass of wine first,” I said, pouring out some of his favorite Montepulciano.  “There is plenty of time.  It is barely seven, and we do not dine till eight.  He took the wine from my hand and smiled.  I returned the smile, adding, “It gives me great pleasure to receive you, Ferrari!  I have been impatient for your return—­almost as impatient as—­” He paused in the act of drinking, and his eyes flashed delightedly.

“As she has?  Piccinina!  How I long to see her again!  I swear to you, amico, I should have gone straight to the Villa Romani had I obeyed my own impulse—­but I had promised you to come here, and, on the whole, the evening will do as well”—­and he laughed with a covert meaning in his laughter—­“perhaps better!”

My hands clinched, but I said with forced gayety: 

“Ma certamente!  The evening will be much better!  Is it not Byron who says that women, like stars, look best at night?  You will find her the same as ever, perfectly well and perfectly charming.  It must be her pure and candid soul that makes her face so fair!  It may be a relief to your mind to know that I am the only man she has allowed to visit her during your absence!”

“Thank God for that!” cried Ferrari, devoutly, as he tossed off his wine.  “And now tell me, my dear conte, what bacchanalians are coming to-night?  Per Dio, after all I am more in the humor for dinner than love-making!”

I burst out laughing harshly.  “Of course!  Every sensible man prefers good eating even to good women!  Who are my guests you ask?  I believe you know them all.  First, there is the Duca Filippo Marina.”

“By Heaven!” interrupted Guido.  “An absolute gentleman, who by his manner seems to challenge the universe to disprove his dignity!  Can he unbend so far as to partake of food in public?  My dear conte, you should have asked him that question!”

“Then,” I went on, not heeding this interruption, “Signor Fraschetti and the Marchese Giulano.”

“Giulano drinks deep’.” laughed Ferrari, “and should he mix his wines, you will find him ready to stab all the waiters before the dinner is half over.”

“In mixing wines,” I returned, coolly, “he will but imitate your example, caro mio.”

“Ah, but I can stand it!” he said.  “He cannot!  Few Neapolitans are like me!”

I watched him narrowly, and went on with the list of my invited guests.

“After these, comes the Capitano Luigi Freccia.”

“What! the raging fire-eater?” exclaimed Guido.  “He who at every second word raps out a pagan or Christian oath, and cannot for his life tell any difference between the two!”

“And the illustrious gentleman Crispiano Dulci and Antonio Biscardi, artists like yourself,” I continued.

He frowned slightly—­then smiled.

“I wish them good appetites!  Time was when I envied their skill—­now I can afford to be generous.  They are welcome to the whole field of art as far as I am concerned.  I have said farewell to the brush and palette—­I shall never paint again.”