ic,
psuedo-scientific conditions which make our lives so different from
those of our fathers. Everything is terribly sudden nowadays, and
alarmingly quick. Lovers make love across Europe by telegraph, and
poetic justice arrives in less than forty-eight hours by the Oriental
Express. Divorce is our weapon of precision, and every pack of cards at
the gaming table can distil a poison more destructive than that of the
Borgia. The unities of time and place are preserved by wire and rail in
a way which would have delighted the hearts of the old French tragics.
Perhaps men seek dramatic situations in their own lives less readily
since they have found out means of making the concluding act more swift,
sudden and inevitable. At all events we all like tragedy less and comedy
more than our fathers did, which, I think, shows that we are sadder and
possibly wiser men than they.

However this may be, Orsino was no more inclined to fancy himself
unhappy than any of his familiar companions, though he was quite willing
to believe that he understood most of life's problems, and especially
the heart of woman. He continued to go into the world, for it was new to
him and if he did not find exactly the sort of sympathy he secretly
craved, he found at least a great deal of consideration, some flattery
and a certain amount of amusement. But when he was not actually being
amused, or really engaged in the work which he had undertaken with so
much enthusiasm, he felt lonely and missed Maria Consuelo more than
ever. By this time she had taken a position in society from which there
could be no drawing back, and he gave up for ever the hope of seeing her
in his own circle. She seemed to avoid even the grey houses where they
might have met on neutral ground, and Orsino saw that his only chance of
finding her in the world lay in going frequently and openly to Del
Ferice's house. He had called on Donna Tullia after the dinner, of
course, but he was not prepared to do more, and Del Ferice did not seem
to expect it.

Three or four weeks after he had entered into partnership with Andrea
Contini, Orsino found himself alone with his mother in the evening.
Corona was seated near the fire in her favourite boudoir, with a book in
her hand, and Orsino stood warming himself on one side of the
chimney-piece, staring into the flames and occasionally glancing at his
mother's calm, dark face. He was debating whether he should stay at home
or not.

Corona became