“The play pleases you?” I asked, in a low tone.

“Yes, indeed!” she answered, with a laughing light in her eyes.  “The husband is so droll!  It is all very amusing.”

“The husband is always droll!” I remarked, smiling coldly.  “It is not a temptation to marry when one knows that as a husband one must always look ridiculous.”

She glanced up at me.

“Cesare!  You surely are not vexed?  Of course it is only in plays that it happens so!”

“Plays, cara mia, are often nothing but the reflex of real life,” I said.  “But let us hope there are exceptions, and that all husbands are not fools.”

She smiled expressively and sweetly, toyed with the flowers I had given her, and turned her eyes again to the stage.  I said no more, and was a somewhat moody companion for the rest of the evening.  As we all left the theater one of the ladies who had accompanied Nina said lightly: 

“You seem dull and out of spirits, conte?”

I forced a smile.

“Not I, signora!  Surely you do not find me guilty of such ungallantry?  Were I dull in your company I should prove myself the most ungrateful of my sex.”

She sighed somewhat impatiently.  She was very young and very lovely, and, as far as I knew, innocent, and of a more thoughtful and poetical temperament than most women.

“That is the mere language of compliment,” she said, looking straightly at me with her clear, candid eyes.  “You are a true courtier!  Yet often I think your courtesy is reluctant.”

I looked at her in some surprise.

“Reluctant?  Signora, pardon me if I do not understand!”

“I mean,” she continued, still regarding me steadily, though a faint blush warmed the clear pallor of her delicate complexion, “that you do not really like us women; you say pretty things to us, and you try to be amiable in our company, but you are in truth averse to our ways—­you are sceptical—­you think we are all hypocrites.”

I laughed a little coldly.

“Really, signora, your words place me in a very awkward position.  Were I to tell you my real sentiments—­”

She interrupted me with a touch of her fan on my arm, and smiled gravely.

“You would say, ’Yes, you are right, signora.  I never see one of your sex without suspecting treachery.’  Ah, Signor Conte, we women are indeed full of faults, but nothing can blind our instinct!” She paused, and her brilliant eyes softened as she added gently, “I pray your marriage may be a very happy one.”

I was silent.  I was not even courteous enough to thank her for the wish.  I was half angered that this girl should have been able to probe my thoughts so quickly and unerringly.  Was I so bad an actor after all?  I glanced down at her as she leaned lightly on my arm,

“Marriage is a mere comedietta,” I said, abruptly and harshly.  “We have seen it acted to-night.  In a few days I shall play the part of the chief buffoon—­in other words, the husband.”