cted 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."

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