im to escape
being drawn into the circle; he must smile and retort, and look
perfectly at his ease. Well! it was but the ordeal of swallowing bread
and cheese pills after all. The man who let the mere anticipation of
discovery choke him was simply a man of weak nerves.

But just at that time Tito felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and no
amount of previous resolution could prevent the very unpleasant
sensation with which that sudden touch jarred him. His face, as he
turned it round, betrayed the inward shock; but the owner of the hand
that seemed to have such evil magic in it broke into a light laugh. He
was a young man about Tito's own age, with keen features, small
close-clipped head, and close-shaven lip and chin, giving the idea of a
mind as little encumbered as possible with material that was not
nervous. The keen eyes were bright with hope and friendliness, as so
many other young eyes have been that have afterwards closed on the world
in bitterness and disappointment; for at that time there were none but
pleasant predictions about Niccolo Macchiavelli, as a young man of
promise, who was expected to mend the broken fortunes of his ancient
family.

"Why, Melema, what evil dream did you have last night, that you took my
light grasp for that of a _sbirro_ or something worse?"

"Ah, Messer Niccolo!" said Tito, recovering himself immediately; "it
must have been an extra amount of dulness in my veins this morning that
shuddered at the approach of your wit. But the fact is, I have had a
bad night."

"That is unlucky, because you will be expected to shine without any
obstructing fog to-day in the Rucellai Gardens. I take it for granted
you are to be there."

"Messer Bernardo did me the honour to invite me," said Tito; "but I
shall be engaged elsewhere."

"Ah! I remember, you are in love," said Macchiavelli, with a shrug,
"else you would never have such inconvenient engagements. Why, we are
to eat a peacock and ortolans under the loggia among Bernardo Rucellai's
rare trees; there are to be the choicest spirits in Florence and the
choicest wines. Only, as Piero de' Medici is to be there, the choice
spirits may happen to be swamped in the capping of impromptu verses. I
hate that game; it is a device for the triumph of small wits, who are
always inspired the most by the smallest occasions."

"What is that you are saying about Piero de' Medici and small wits,
Messer Niccolo?" said Nello, whose light figure wa