across the bay the sound of sweet and plaintive singing floated from some boat in the distance, to our ears—­the evening breathed of beauty, peace and love.  But I—­my fingers quivered with restrained longing to be at the throat of the graceful liar who sauntered so easily and confidently beside me.  Ah!  Heaven, if he only knew!  If he could have realized the truth, would his face have worn quite so careless a smile—­would his manner have been quite so free and dauntless?  Stealthily I glanced at him; he was humming a tune softly under his breath, but feeling instinctively, I suppose, that my eyes were upon him, he interrupted the melody and turned to me with the question: 

“You have traveled far and seen much, conte!”

“I have.”

“And in what country have you found the most beautiful women!”

“Pardon me, young sir,” I answered, coldly, “the business of life has separated me almost entirely from feminine society.  I have devoted myself exclusively to the amassing of wealth, understanding thoroughly that gold is the key to all things, even to woman’s love; if I desired that latter commodity, which I do not.  I fear that I scarcely know a fair face from a plain one—­I never was attracted by women, and now at my age, with my settled habits, I am not likely to alter my opinion concerning them—­and I frankly confess those opinions are the reverse of favorable.”

Ferrari laughed.  “You remind me of Fabio!” he said.  “He used to talk in that strain before he was married—­though he was young and had none of the experiences which may have made you cynical, conte!  But he altered his ideas very rapidly—­and no wonder!”

“Is his wife so very lovely then?” I asked.

“Very!  Delicately, daintily beautiful.  But no doubt you will see her for yourself—­as a friend of her late husband’s father, you will call upon her, will you not?”

“Why should I?” I said, gruffly—­“I have no wish to meet her!  Besides, an inconsolable widow seldom cares to receive visitors—­I shall not intrude upon her sorrows!”

Never was there a better move than this show of utter indifference I affected.  The less I appeared to care about seeing the Countess Romani, the more anxious Ferrari was to introduce me—­(introduce me!—­to my wife!)—­and he set to work preparing his own doom with assiduous ardor.

“Oh, but you must see her!” he exclaimed, eagerly.  “She will receive you, I am sure, as a special guest.  Your age and your former acquaintance with her late husband’s family will win from her the utmost courtesy, believe me!  Besides, she is not really inconsolable—­” He paused suddenly.  We had arrived at the entrance of my hotel.  I looked at him steadily.

“Not really inconsolable?” I repeated, in a tone of inquiry ferrari broke into a forced laugh,

“Why no!” he said, “What would you?  She is young and light-hearted—­ perfectly lovely and in the fullness of youth and health.  One cannot expect her to weep long, especially for a man she did not care for.”