now of the Argentine
war, now of the Brazilian expedition, now of hunting feats and
adventures with savages or wild beasts. Galli, with the delight of
a child hearing a fairy story, kept interrupting every moment to ask
questions. He was of the impressionable Neapolitan temperament and loved
everything sensational. Gemma took some knitting from her basket and
listened silently, with busy fingers and downcast eyes. Martini frowned
and fidgeted. The manner in which the anecdotes were told seemed to
him boastful and self-conscious; and, notwithstanding his unwilling
admiration for a man who could endure physical pain with the amazing
fortitude which he had seen the week before, he genuinely disliked the
Gadfly and all his works and ways.

"It must have been a glorious life!" sighed Galli with naive envy. "I
wonder you ever made up your mind to leave Brazil. Other countries must
seem so flat after it!"

"I think I was happiest in Peru and Ecuador," said the Gadfly. "That
really is a magnificent tract of country. Of course it is very hot,
especially the coast district of Ecuador, and one has to rough it a bit;
but the scenery is superb beyond imagination."

"I believe," said Galli, "the perfect freedom of life in a barbarous
country would attract me more than any scenery. A man must feel his
personal, human dignity as he can never feel it in our crowded towns."

"Yes," the Gadfly answered; "that is----"

Gemma raised her eyes from her knitting and looked at him. He flushed
suddenly scarlet and broke off. There was a little pause.

"Surely it is not come on again?" asked Galli anxiously.

"Oh, nothing to speak of, thanks to your s-s-soothing application that I
b-b-blasphemed against. Are you going already, Martini?"

"Yes. Come along, Galli; we shall be late."

Gemma followed the two men out of the room, and presently returned with
an egg beaten up in milk.

"Take this, please," she said with mild authority; and sat down again to
her knitting. The Gadfly obeyed meekly.

For half an hour, neither spoke. Then the Gadfly said in a very low
voice:

"Signora Bolla!"

She looked up. He was tearing the fringe of the couch-rug, and kept his
eyes lowered.

"You didn't believe I was speaking the truth just now," he began.

"I had not the smallest doubt that you were telling falsehoods," she
answered quietly.

"You were quite right. I was telling falsehoods all the time."

"Do you mean about the war?"

"About eve