“You are fatigued, conte?  You are ill!  Pray take my arm!”

He extended it as he spoke.  I put it gently but firmly aside.

“It is nothing,” I said, coldly; “a mere faintness which often overcomes me, the remains of a recent illness.”  Here I glanced at my watch; the afternoon was waning rapidly.

“If you will excuse me,” I continued, “I will now take leave of you.  Regarding the pictures you have permitted me to select, my servant shall call for them this evening to save you the trouble of sending them.”

“It is no trouble—­” began Ferrari.

“Pardon me,” I interrupted him; “you must allow me to arrange the matter in my own way.  I am somewhat self-willed, as you know.”

He bowed and smiled—­the smile of a courtier and sycophant—­a smile I hated.  He eagerly proposed to accompany me back to my hotel, but I declined this offer somewhat peremptorily, though at the same time thanking him for his courtesy.  The truth was I had had almost too much of his society; the strain on my nerves began to tell; I craved to be alone.  I felt that if I were much longer with him I should be tempted to spring at him and throttle the life out of him.  As it was, I bade him adieu with friendly though constrained politeness; he was profuse in his acknowledgments of the favor I had done him by purchasing his pictures.  I waived all thanks aside, assuring him that my satisfaction in the matter far exceeded his, and that I was proud to be the possessor of such valuable proofs of his genius.  He swallowed my flattery as eagerly as a fish swallows bait, and we parted on excellent terms.  He watched me from his door as I walked down the hilly road with the slow and careful step of an elderly man; once out of his sight, however, I quickened my pace, for the tempest of conflicting sensations within me made it difficult for me to maintain even the appearance of composure.  On entering my apartment at the hotel the first thing that met my eyes was a large gilt osier basket, filled with fine fruit and flowers, placed conspicuously on the center-table.

I summoned my valet.  “Who sent this?” I demanded.

“Madame the Contessa Romani,” replied Vincenzo. with discreet gravity.  “There is a card attached, if the eccelenza will be pleased to look.”

I did look.  It was my wife’s visiting-card, and on it was written in her own delicate penmanship—­

“To remind the conte of his promised visit to-morrow.”

A sudden anger possessed me.  I crumpled up the dainty glossy bit of pasteboard and flung it aside.  The mingled odors of the fruit and flowers offended my senses.

“I care nothing for these trifles,” I said, addressing Vincenzo almost impatiently.  “Take them to the little daughter of the hotel-keeper; she is a child, she will appreciate them.  Take them away at once.”