of honour, not even admitting discussion upon such
points. But the same men may have very different opinions about
spiritual matters.

Eliminating the vulgar average of society, there remain always a certain
number who, while possibly holding even more divergent beliefs than most
people, agree more precisely, or disagree more essentially, about
matters of conscience, either stretching or contracting the code of
honour according to their own temper, and especially according to the
traditions of their own most immediate surroundings. Other conditions
being favourable, it seems as if men whose consciences are most alike
should be the best fitted for each other's friendship, no matter what
they may think or believe about religion.

This was certainly the case with Guido d'Este and Lamberto Lamberti, and
they simultaneously dismissed, as detestable, dishonourable, and
unworthy, the mere thought that Guido should try to marry an heiress,
with a view to satisfying the outrageous claims of his ex-royal aunt,
the Princess Anatolie.

"In simpler times," observed Lamberti, who liked to recall the middle
ages, "we should have poisoned the old woman."

Guido did not smile.

"Without meaning to do her an injustice," he answered, "I think it much
more probable that she would have poisoned me."

"With the help of Monsieur Leroy, she might have succeeded."

At the thought of the man whom he so cordially detested, Lamberti's blue
eyes grew hard, and his upper lip tightened a little, just showing his
teeth under his red moustache. Guido looked at him and smiled in his
turn.

"There are your ferocious instincts again," he said; "you wish you could
kill him."

"I do," answered Lamberti, simply.

He rose from his seat and stretched himself a little, as some big dogs
always do after the preliminary growl at an approaching enemy.

"I think Monsieur Leroy is the most repulsive human being I ever saw,"
he said. "I am not exactly a sensitive person, but it makes me very
uncomfortable to be near him. He once gave me his hand, and I had to
take it. It felt like a live toad. How old is that man?"

"He must be forty," said Guido, "but he is wonderfully well preserved.
Any one would take him for five-and-thirty."

"It is disgusting!" Lamberti kicked a pebble away, as he stood.

"He looked just as he does now, when I was seventeen," observed Guido.

"The creature paints his face. I am sure of it."

"No. I have seen him drenched in