e resorted to their snuff-boxes. We
do not know what Michelangelo or Perugino did under the circumstances,
but it is tolerably evident that the man of the nineteenth century
cannot think without talking and cannot talk without cigarettes.
Therefore Anastase began to smoke and Orsino, being young and imitative,
followed his example.

"You have been an exceptionally fortunate man," remarked the latter, who
was not old enough to be anything but cynical in his views of life.

"Do you think so? Yes--I have been fortunate. But I do not like to think
that my happiness has been so very exceptional. The world is a good
place, full of happy people. It must be--otherwise purgatory and hell
would be useless institutions."

"You do not suppose all people to be good as well as happy then," said
Orsino with a laugh.

"Good? What is goodness, my friend? One half of the theologians tell us
that we shall be happy if we are good and the other half assure us that
the only way to be good is to abjure earthly happiness. If you will
believe me, you will never commit the supreme error of choosing between
the two methods. Take the world as it is, and do not ask too many
questions of the fates. If you are willing to be happy, happiness will
come in its own shape."

Orsino's young face expressed rather contemptuous amusement. At twenty,
happiness is a dull word, and satisfaction spells excitement.

"That is the way people talk," he said. "You have got everything by
fighting for it, and you advise me to sit still till the fruit drops
into my mouth."

"I was obliged to fight. Everything comes to you naturally--fortune,
rank--everything, including marriage. Why should you lift a hand?"

"A man cannot possibly be happy who marries before he is thirty years
old," answered Orsino with conviction. "How do you expect me to occupy
myself during the next ten years?"

"That is true," Gouache replied, somewhat thoughtfully, as though the
consideration had not struck him.

"If I were an artist, it would be different."

"Oh, very different. I agree with you." Anastase smiled good-humouredly.

"Because I should have talent--and a talent is an occupation in itself."

"I daresay you would have talent," Gouache answered, still laughing.

"No--I did not mean it in that way--I mean that when a man has a talent
it makes him think of something besides himself."

"I fancy there is more truth in that remark than either you or I would
at first think," s