reemasonry among
men of the world, a kind of tacit agreement that women need not be told
what goes on at the clubs, and at men's dinners, and late at night when
old friends have spent an evening together. Not that there is any harm
in it all; but women would not understand. They have their innocent
little mysteries which they keep from us, and we have harmless little
secrets which we do not let them know."

Folco laughed softly at his own way of putting it, and perhaps because
Marcello so easily accepted his point of view.

"I see," said the boy. "I wonder whether my mother would not understand
that. It seems so simple!"

"She will, when the time comes, no doubt," answered Corbario. "Your
mother is a great exception, my dear boy. On the other hand, she is so
anxious about your health just now, that, if I were you, I would not say
anything about feeling the want of a little excitement. Of course your
life is monotonous. I know it. But there is nothing more monotonous than
getting well, is there? The best part of it is the looking forward to
what one will do when one is quite strong. You and I can talk of that,
sometimes, and build castles in the air; but it is of no use to give
your mother the idea that you are beating your wings against the bars of
your cage, is it?"

Folco was quite lyric that day, but the words made exactly the
impression he wished.

"You are right," Marcello said. "You always are. There is nobody like
you, Folco. You are an elder brother to me, and yet you don't preach. I
often tell my mother so."

This was true, and what Marcello told her added to her happiness, if
anything could do that, and she encouraged the two to go off together as
much as possible. She even suggested that they should go down to San
Domenico for a fortnight, to look after the great Calabrian estate.

They rose and began to walk toward the cottage. The shooting had been
good that morning, as quail-shooting goes, and the man who acted as
keeper, loader, gardener, and general factotum, and who went out with
any one who wanted to shoot, had gone on to the cottage with the bag,
the two guns, and the animal which he called his dog. The man's name was
Ercole, that is to say, Hercules; and though he was not a giant, he
certainly bore a closer resemblance to the hero than his dog did to dogs
in general.

"He was born in my house," Ercole said, when any one asked questions.
"Find a better one if you can. His name? I call him Ni