I ascended the hotel steps.  “Pray come in!” I said, with an inviting movement of my hand.  “You must take a glass of wine before you leave.  And so—­she did not care for him, you say?”

Encouraged by my friendly invitation and manner, Ferrari became more at this ease than ever, and hooking his arm through mine as we crossed the broad passage of the hotel together, he replied in a confidential tone: 

“My dear conte, how can a woman love a man who is forced upon her by her father for the sake of the money he gives her?  As I told you before, my late friend was utterly insensible to the beauty of his wife—­he was cold as a stone, and preferred his books.  Then naturally she had no love for him!”

By this time we had reached my apartments, and as I threw open the door, I saw that Ferrari was taking in with a critical eye the costly fittings and luxurious furniture.  In answer to this last remark, I said with a chilly smile: 

“And as I told you before, my dear Signor Ferarri, I know nothing whatever about women, and care less than nothing for their loves or hatreds!  I have always thought of them more or less as playful kittens, who purr when they are stroked the right way, and scream and scratch when their tails are trodden on.  Try this Montepulciano!”

He accepted the glass I proffered him, and tasted the wine with the air of a connoisseur.

“Exquisite!” he murmured, sipping it lazily.  “You are lodged en prince here, conte!  I envy you!”

“You need not,” I answered.  “You have youth and health, and—­as you have hinted to me—­love; all these things are better than wealth, so people say.  At any rate, youth and health are good things—­love I have no belief in.  As for me, I am a mere luxurious animal, loving comfort and ease beyond anything.  I have had many trials—­I now take my rest in my own fashion.”

“A very excellent and sensible fashion!” smiled Ferrari, leaning his head easily back on the satin cushions of the easy-chair into which he had thrown himself.

“Do you know, conte, now I look at you well, I think you must have been very handsome when you were young!  You have a superb figure.’”

I bowed stiffly.  “You flatter me, signor!  I believe I never was specially hideous—­but looks in a man always rank second to strength, and of strength I have plenty yet remaining.”

“I do not doubt it,” he returned, still regarding me attentively with an expression in which there was the faintest shadow of uneasiness.

“It is an odd coincidence, you will say, but I find a most extraordinary resemblance in the height and carriage of your figure to that of my late friend Romani.”

I poured some wine out for myself with a steady hand, and drank it.

“Really?” I answered.  “I am glad that I remind you of him—­if the reminder is agreeable!  But all tall men are much alike so far as figure goes, providing they are well made.”