impression!"

Harz said abruptly: "There are worse things than murder."

"Ah! par exemple!" said Sarelli.

There was a slight stir all round the table.

"Verry good," cried out Herr Paul, "a vot' sante, cher."

Miss Naylor shivered, as if some one had put a penny down her back; and
Mrs. Decie, leaning towards Harz, smiled like one who has made a pet
dog do a trick. Christian alone was motionless, looking thoughtfully at
Harz.

"I saw a man tried for murder once," he said, "a murder for revenge;
I watched the judge, and I thought all the time: 'I'd rather be that
murderer than you; I've never seen a meaner face; you crawl through
life; you're not a criminal, simply because you haven't the courage.'"

In the dubious silence following the painter's speech, Mr. Treffry could
distinctly be heard humming. Then Sarelli said: "What do you say to
anarchists, who are not men, but savage beasts, whom I would tear to
pieces!"

"As to that," Harz answered defiantly, "it maybe wise to hang them, but
then there are so many other men that it would be wise to hang."

"How can we tell what they went through; what their lives were?"
murmured Christian.

Miss Naylor, who had been rolling a pellet of bread, concealed it
hastily. "They are--always given a chance to--repent--I believe," she
said.

"For what they are about to receive," drawled Dawney.

Mrs. Decie signalled with her fan: "We are trying to express the
inexpressible--shall we go into the garden?"

All rose; Harz stood by the window, and in passing, Christian looked at
him.

He sat down again with a sudden sense of loss. There was no white
figure opposite now. Raising his eyes he met Sarelli's. The Italian was
regarding him with a curious stare.

Herr Paul began retailing apiece of scandal he had heard that afternoon.

"Shocking affair!" he said; "I could never have believed it of her!
B---is quite beside himself. Yesterday there was a row, it seems!"

"There has been one every day for months," muttered Dawney.

"But to leave without a word, and go no one knows where! B---is 'viveur'
no doubt, mais, mon Dieu, que voulez vous? She was always a poor,
pale thing. Why! when my---" he flourished his cigar; "I was not
always---what I should have been---one lives in a world of flesh and
blood---we are not all angels---que diable! But this is a very vulgar
business. She goes off; leaves everything---without a word; and B---is
very fond of her. These things are not d