Don Orsino

XII.

ORSINO looked about him with some curiosity, as he entered Del Ferice’s abode. He had never expected to find himself the guest of Donna Tullia and her husband, and when he took the robust countess’s hand he was inclined to wish that the whole affair might turn out to be a dream. In vain he repeated to himself that he was no longer a boy, but a grown man, of age in the eyes of the law to be responsible for his own actions, and old enough in fact to take what steps he pleased for the accomplishment of his own ends. He found no solace in the reflection, and he could not rid himself of the idea that he had got himself into a very boyish scrape. It would indeed have been very easy to refuse Del Ferice’s invitation, and to write him a note within the hour explaining vaguely that circumstances beyond his control obliged him to ask another interview for the discussion of business matters. But it was too late now. He was exchanging indifferent remarks with Donna Tullia, while Del Ferice looked on benignantly, and all three waited for Madame d’Aranjuez.

Five minutes had not elapsed before she came, and her appearance momentarily dispelled Orsino’s annoyance at his own rashness. He had never before seen her dressed for the evening, and he had not realized how much to her advantage the change from the ordinary costume or the inevitable “tea garment ” to a dinner gown would be. She was assuredly not overdressed, for she wore black without colors, and her only ornament was a single string of beautiful pearls, which Donna Tullia believed to be false, but which Orsino accepted as real. Possibly he knew even more about pearls than the countess, for his mother had many and wore them often, whereas Donna Tullia preferred diamonds and rubies. But his eyes did not linger on the necklace, for Maria Consuelo’s whole presence affected him strangely. There was something light-giving and even dazzling about her which he had not expected, and he understood for the first time that the language of the newspaper paragraphs was not so grossly flattering as he had supposed. In spite of the great artistic defects of feature, which could not long escape an observer of ordinary taste, it was clear that Maria Consuelo must always be a striking and central figure in any social assembly, great or small. There had been moments in Orsino’s acquaintance with her when he had thought her really beautiful; as she now appeared, one of those moments seemed to have become permanent. He thought of what he had dared on the preceding day; his vanity was pleased and his equanimity restored. With a sense of pride which was very far from being delicate, and was by no means well founded, he watched her as she walked in to dinner before him, leaning on Del Ferice’s arm.

“ Beautiful, eh ? I see you think so, ” whispered Donna Tullia in his ear.

The countess treated him at once as an old acquaintance, which put him at his ease, while it annoyed his conscience.

“Very beautiful,” he answered, with a grave nod.

“And so mysterious, ” whispered the countess again, just as they reached the door of the dining-room. “She is very fascinating. — take care! ”

She tapped his arm familiarly with her fan and laughed, as he left her at her seat.

“ What are you two laughing at ? ” asked Del Ferice, smiling pleasantly as he surveyed the six oysters he found on his plate, and considered which should be left until the last, as the crowningtidbit. He was fond of good eating, and especially fond of oysters as an introduction to the feast.

“What were we laughing at? How indiscreet you are, Ugo! You always want to find out all my little secrets. Consuelo, my dear, do you like oysters, or do you not ? That is the question. You do, I know, — a little lemon and a very little red pepper. I love red, even to adoring cayenne.”

Orsino glanced at Madame d’ Aranjuez, for he was surprised to hear Donna Tullia call her by her first name. He had not known that the two women had reached the first halting-place of intimacy.

Maria Consuelo smiled rather vaguely, as she took the advice in the shape of lemon juice and pepper. Del Ferice could not interrupt his enjoyment of the oysters by words, and Orsino waited for an opportunity of sayingsomething witty.

“ I have lately formed the highest opinion of the ancient Romans, ” said Donna Tullia, addressing him. “Do you know why ? ”

Orsino professed his ignorance.

“Ugo tells me that in a recent excavation twenty cartloads of oyster shells were discovered behind one house. Think of that! Twenty cartloads to a single house! What a family must have lived there! Indeed, the Romans were a great people. ”

Orsino thought that Donna Tullia herself might pass for a heroine in future ages, provided that the shells of her victims were deposited together in a safe place. He laughed politely, and hoped that the conversation might not turn upon archaeology, which was not his strong point,

“I wonder how long it will be before modern Rome is excavated, and the foreigner of the future pays a franc to visit the ruins of the modern house of parliament ? ” suggested Maria Consuelo, who had said nothing as yet.

“At the present rate of progress, I should think about two years would be enough,” answered Donna Tullia. “But Ugo says we are a great nation. Ask him.”

“Ah, my angel, you do not understand those things,” said Del Ferice. “ How shall I explain ? There is no development without decay of the useless parts. The snake casts its old skin before it appears with a new one. And there can he no business without an occasional crisis. Unbroken fair weather ends in a dead calm. Why do you take such a gloomy view, msdame ? ”

“One should never talk of things; only people are amusing,” said Donna Tullia, before Madame d’Aranjuez could answer. “Whom have you seen to-day, Consuelo ? And you, Don Orsino ? And you, Ugo ? Are we to talk forever of oysters, and business, and snakes ? Come, tell me, all of you, what everybody has told you. There must be something new. Of course that poor Carantoni is going to be married again, and the Princess Befana is dying, as usual, and the same dear old people have run away with each other, and all that. Of course. I wish things were not always just going to happen. One would like to hear what is said on the day after the events which never come off. It would be a novelty.”

Donna Tullia loved talk and noise, and gossip above all things, and she was not quite at her ease. The news that Orsino was to come to dinner had taken her breath away. Ugo had advised her to be natural, and she was doing her best to follow his advice.

“As for me,” he said, “I have been tormented all day, and have spent but one pleasant half hour. I was so fortunate as to find Madame d’Aranjuez at home, but that was enough to indemnify me for many sacrifices. ”

“I cannot do better than say the same, ” remarked Orsino, though with far less truth. “I believe I have read through a new novel, but I do not remember the title, and I have forgotten the story.”

“How satisfactory! ” exclaimed Maria Consuelo, with a little scorn.

“It is the only way to read novels,” answered Orsino, “for it leaves them always new to you, and the same one may be made to last several weeks.”

“I have heard it said that one should fear the man of one book, ” observed Maria Consuelo, looking at him.

“For my part, I am more inclined to fear the woman of many.”

“ Do you read much, my dear Consuelo ? ” asked Donna Tullia, laughing.

“Perpetually.”

“And is Don Orsino afraid of you? ”

“Mortally, ” said Orsino. “Madame d’Aranjuez knows everything.”

“Is she blue, then?” asked Donna Tullia.

“ What shall I say, madame ? ” inquired Orsino, turning to Maria Consuelo. “Is it a compliment to compare you to the sky of Italy ? ”

“For blueness? ”

“ No; for brightness and serenity. ”

“Thanks. That is pretty. I accept. ”

“And have you nothing for me?” asked Donna Tullia, with an engaging smile.

The other two looked at Orsino, wondering what he would say in answer to such a point-blank demand for flattery.

“Juno is still Minerva’s ally,” he said, falling back upon mythology, though it struck him that Del Ferice would make a poor Jupiter, with his fat white face and dull eyes.

“Very good! ” laughed Donna Tullia. " A little classic, but I pressed you hard. You are not easily caught. Talking of clever men. ” she added, with another meaning glance at Orsino, “I met your friend to-day, Consuelo.”

“My friend? Who is he? ”

“Spicca, of course. Whom did you think I meant? We always laugh at her, ” she said, turning to Orsino, “because she hates him so. She does not know him, and has never spoken to him. It is his cadaverous face that frightens her. One can understand that. We of old Rome have been used to him since the deluge. But a stranger is horrified at the first sight of him. Consuelo positively dreads to meet him in the street. She says that he makes her dream of all sorts of horrors. ”

“It is quite true,” said Maria Consuelo, with a slight movement of her beautiful shoulders. “There are people one would rather not see, merely because they are not good to look at. He is one of them, and if I see him coming I turn away.”

“I know; I told him so to-day,” continued Donna Tullia cheerfully. “We are old friends, but we do not often meet nowadays. Just fancy! It was in that little antiquary’s shop in the Monte Brianzo, — the first on the left as you go; he has good things, — and I saw a bit of embroidery in the window that took my fancy, so I stopped the carriage and went in. Who should be there but Spicca, hat and all, looking like old Father Time! He was bargaining for something, — a wretched old bit of brass, — bargaining, my dear! For a few sous! One may be poor, but one has no right to be mean. I thought he would have got the miserable antiquary’s skin.”

“Antiquaries can generally take care of themselves, ” observed Orsino incredulously.

“Oh. I dare say, but it looks so badly, you know. That is all I mean. When he saw me he stopped wrangling, and we talked a little while I had the embroidery wrapped up. I will show it to you after dinner. It is sixteenth century, Ugo says, — a piece of a chasuble, — exquisite flowers on claret-colored satina ; perfect gem, so rare now that everything is imitated. However, that is not the point. It was Spicca. I was forgetting my story. He said the usual things, you know, — that he had heard that I was very gay this year, but that it seemed to agree with me, and so on. And I asked him why he never came to see me. and as an inducement I told him of our great beauty here, — that is you, Consuelo, so please look delighted instead of frowning; and I told him that she ought to hear him talk, because his face had frightened her so that she ran away when she saw him coming towards her in the street. You see, if one flatters his cleverness; he does not mind being called ugly, — or at least I thought not until to-day. But to my consternation he seemed angry, and he asked me almost savagely if it were true that the Countess d’Aranjuez — that is what he called you, my dear — really tried to avoid him in the street. Then I laughed and said I was only joking, and he began to bargain again for the little brass frame, and I went away. When I last heard his voice he was insisting upon seventyfive centimes, and the antiquary was jeering at him and asking a franc and a half. I wonder which got the better of the fight in the end ? I will ask him the next time I see him.”

Del Ferice supported his wife with a laugh at her story, but it was not very genuine. He had unpleasant recollections of Spicca in earlier days, and his name recalled events which Ugo would willingly have forgotten. Orsino smiled politely, but resented the way in which Donna Tullia spoke of his father’s old friend. As for Maria Consuelo, she was a little pale and looked tired. But the countess was irrepressible, for she feared lest Orsino should go away and think her dull.

“Of course we all really like Spicca, ” she said. “Every one does.”

“I do, for my part,” said Orsino gravely. “I have a great respect for him, for his own sake, and he is one of my father’s oldest friends.”

Maria Consuelo looked at him very suddenly, as though she were surprised by wliat he said. She did not remember to have heard him mention the melancholy old duelist. She seemed about to say something, but changed her mind.

“Yes,” said Ugo, turning the subject, “he is one of the old tribe that is dying out. What types there were in those days, and how those who are alive have changed! Do you remember. Tullia? But of course you cannot, my angel; it was far before your time. ”

One of Ugo’s favorite methods of pleasing his wife was to assert that she was too young to remember people who had indeed played a part as lately as after the death of her first husband. It always soothed her.

“I remember them all,” he continued. “Old Montevarchi, and Frangipani, and poor Casalverde, and a score of others.”

He had been on the point of mentioning old Astrardente, too, but he checked himself.

“Then there were the young ones, who are in middle age now,” he went on, “such as Valdarno and the Montevarchi, whom you know, as different from their former selves as you can well imagine. Society was different, too. ”

Del Ferice spoke thoughtfully and slowly, as though wishing that some one would interrupt him or take up the subject, for he felt that his wife’s long story about Spicca and the antiquary had not been a success, and his instinct told him that Spicca had better not be mentioned again, since he was a friend of Orsino’s, and since his name seemed to exert a depressing influence upon Maria Consuelo. Orsino came to the rescue, and began to talk of current social topics in a way which showed that he was not so profoundly prejudiced by traditional ideas as Del Ferice had expected. The momentary chill wore off quickly enough, and when the dinner ended Donna Tullia was sure that it had been a success. They all returned to the drawing-room, and then Del Ferice, without any remark, led Orsino away to smoke with him in a distant apartment.

“We can smoke again when we go back, ” he said. “ My wife does not mind, and Madame d’Aranjuez likes it. But it is an excuse to be alone together for a little while; and besides, my doctor makes me lie down for a quarter of an hour after dinner. You will excuse me ? ”

Del Ferice extended himself upon a leathern lounge, and Orsino sat down in a deep easy-chair.

“I was so sorry not to be able to come away with you to-day, ” said Orsino. “The truth is, Madame d’Aranjuez wanted some information, and 1 was just going to explain that 1 would stay a little longer, when you asked us both to dinner. You must have thought me very forgetful.”

“Not at all, not at all,” answered Del Ferice. “Indeed, I quite supposed that you were coming with me, when it struck me that this would be a much more pleasant place for talking. I cannot imagine why I had not thought of it before; but I have so many details to think of.”

Not much could be said for the veracity of either of the statements which the two men were pleased to make to each other, but Orsino had the small advantage of being nearer to the letter, if not to the spirit, of the truth. Each, however, was satisfied with the other’s tact.

“ And so, Don Orsino, ” continued Del Ferice, after a short pause, “you wish to try a little operation in business. Yes. Very good. You have, as we said yesterday, a sum of money ample for a beginning, and you have the necessary courage and intelligence. You need a practical assistant, however, and it is indispensable that the point selected for the first venture should be one promising speedy profit. Is that it ? ”

“Precisely.”

“Very good, very good. I think I can offer you both the land and the partner, and almost guarantee your success, if you will be guided by me,”

“I have come to you for advice. I will follow it gratefully. As for the success of the undertaking, I will assume the responsibility.”

“Yes. That is better. After all, everything is uncertain in such matters, and you would not like to feel that you were under an obligation to me. On the other hand, as I told you, I am selfish and cautious. I would rather not appear in the transaction.”

If any doubt as to Del Ferice’s honesty of purpose crossed Orsino’s mind at that moment, it was fully compensated by the fact that he himself distinctly preferred not to be openly associated with the banker.

“I quite agree with you,” he said.

“Very well. Now for business. Do you know that it is sometimes more profitable to take over a half-finished building than to begin a new one ? Often, I assure you, for the returns are quicker, and you get a great deal at half price. Now, the man whom I recommend to you is a practical architect, and was employed by a certain baker to build a tenement building in one of the new quarters. The baker dies, the house is unfinished, the heirs wish to sell it as it is (there are at least a dozen of them), and meanwhile the work is stopped. My advice is this; buy this house, go into partnership with the unemployed architect, agreeing to give him a share of the profits, finish the building, and sell it as soon as it is habitable. In six months you will get a handsome return.”

“That sounds very tempting,” answered Orsino, “but it would need more capital than I have. ”

“Not at all, not at all. It is a mere question of taking over a mortgage and paying stamp duty.”

“And how about the difference in ready money, which ought to go to the present owners ? ”

“I see that you are already beginning to understand the principles of business,” said Del Ferire, with an encouraging smile. “ But in this case the owners are glad to get rid of the house on any terms by which they lose nothing, for they are in mortal fear of being ruined by it. as they probably will be if they hold on to it.”

“Then why should I not lose, if I take it ? ”

“That is just the difference. The heirs are a number of incapable persons of the lower class, who do not understand these matters. If they attempted to go on, they would soon find themselves entangled In the greatest difficulties. They would sink where you will almost certainly swim. ”

Orsino was silent for a moment. There was something despicable, to his thinking, in profiting by the loss of a wretched baker’s heirs.

“It seems to me,” he said presently, “that if I succeed in this I ought to give a share of the profits to the present owners.”

Not a muscle of Del Ferice’s face moved, but his dull eyes looked curiously at Orsino’s young face.

“That sort of thing is not commonly done in business,” he said quietly, after a short pause. “As a rule, men who busy themselves with affairs do so in the hope of growing rich, but I can quite understand that where business is a mere pastime, as it is to be in your case, a man of generous instincts may devote the proceeds to charity.”

“It looks more like justice than charity, to me,” observed Orsino.

“Call it what you will, but succeed first, and consider the uses of your success afterwards. That is not my affair. The baker’s heirs are not especially deserving people, I believe. In fact, they are said to have hastened his death in the hope of inheriting his wealth, and are disappointed to find that they have got nothing. If you wish to be philanthropic, yon might wait until you have cleared a large sum, and then give it to a school or a hospital.”

“That is true, ” said Orsino. “In the mean time it is important to begin.”

“We can begin to-morrow, if you please. You will find me at the bank at midday. I will send for the architect and the notary, and we can manage everything in forty-eight hours. Before the week is out you can be at work. ”

“So soon as that? ”

“Certainly. Sooner, by hurrying matters a little.”

“As soon as possible, then. And I will go to the bank at twelve o’clock to-morrow. A thousand thanks for all your good offices, my dear count.”

“It is a pleasure, I assure you.”

Orsino was so much pleased with Del Ferice’s quick and business-like way of arranging matters that he began to look upon him as a model to imitate, so far as executive ability was concerned. It was odd enough that any one of his name should feel anything like admiration for Ugo, but friendship and hatred are only the opposite points at which the social pendulum pauses before it swings backward, and they who live long may see many oscillations.

The two men went back to the drawing-room, where Donna Tullia and Maria Consuelo were discussing the complicated views of the almighty dressmaker. Orsino knew that there was little chance of his speaking a word alone with Madame d’Aranjuez, and resigned himself to the effort of helping the general conversation. Fortunately, the time to he got over in this way was not long, as all four had engagements in the evening. Maria Consuelo rose at half past ten, but Orsino determined to wait five minutes longer, or at least to make a show of meaning to do so. But Donna Tullia put out her hand, as though she expected him to take his leave at the same time. She was going to a ball, and wanted at least an hour in which to screw her magnificence up to the dancing pitch.

The consequence was that Orsino found himself helping Maria Consuelo into the modest hired conveyance which awaited her at the gate. He hoped that she would offer him a seat for a short distance, but he was disappointed.

“May I come to-morrow ? ” he asked, as he closed the door of the carriage. The night was not cold, and the window was down.

“Please tell the coachman to take me to the Via Nazionale,” she said quickly,

“What number? ”

“Never mind, — he knows. I have forgotten. Good-niglit.”

Site tried to draw up the window, but Orsino held his hand on it.

“May I come to-morrow ? ” he asked again.

' “No.”

“Are you angry with me still? ”

“No.”

“ Then why ” —

“Let me shut the window. Take your hand away. ”

Her voiee was very imperative in the dark. Orsino relinquished his hold on the frame, and the pane ran up suddenly into its place with a rattling noise.

There was obviously nothing more to be said.

“ Via Nazionale. The signora says you know the house, ” he called to the driver.

The man looked surprised, shrugged his shoulders after the manner of livery-stable coachmen, and drove slowly off in the direction indicated. Orsino stood looking after the carriage, and a few seconds later he saw that the man drew rein and bent down to the front window as though asking for orders. Orsino thought he heard Maria Consuelo’s voice answering the question, but he could not distinguish what she said, and the brougham drove on at once without taking a new direction.

He was curious to know whither she was going, and the idea of following her suggested itself; but he instantly dismissed it, partly because it seemed unworthy, and partly, perhaps, because he was on foot, and no cab was passing within hail.

Orsino was very much puzzled. During the dinner Maria Consuelo had behaved with her usual cordiality, but as soon as they were alone she spoke and acted as she had done in the afternoon. Orsino turned away and walked across the deserted square. He was greatly disturbed, for he felt a sense of humiliation and disappointment quite new to him. Young as he was, he had been accustomed already to a degree of consideration very different from that which Maria Consuelo thought fit to bestow, and it was certainly the first time in his life that a door — even the door of a carriage — had been shut in his face without ceremony. What would have been an unpardonable insult coming from a man was at least an indignity when it came from a woman. As Orsino walked along, his wrath rose, and he wondered why he had not been angry at once.

“Very well,” he said to himself. “She says she does not want me. I will take her at her word, and I will not go to see her any more. We shall see what happens. She will find out that I am not a child, as she was good enough to call me to-day, and that I am not in the habit of having windows put up in my face. I have much more serious business on hand than making love to Madame d’Aranjuez. ”

The more he reflected upon the situation, the more angry he grew, and when he reached the door of the club he was in a humor to quarrel with everything and everybody. Fortunately, at that early hour, the place was in the sole possession of half a dozen old gentlemen, whose conversation diverted his thoughts, though it was the very reverse of edifying. Between the stories they told and the considerable number of cigarettes he smoked while listening to them, he was almost restored to his normal frame of mind by midnight, when four or five of his usual companions straggled in and proposed baccarat. After his recent successes he could not well refuse to play, so he sat down rather reluctantly with the rest. Oddly enough, he did not lose, though he won but little.

“Lucky at play, unlucky in love, ” laughed one of the men carelessly.

“What do you mean?” asked Orsino, turning sharply upon the Speaker.

“Mean? Nothing,” answered the latter in great surprise. “What is the matter with you, Orsino ? Cannot one quote a common proverb ? ”

“Oh — if you meant nothing, let us go on, ” Orsino answered gloomily.

As he took up the cards again, he heard a sigh behind him, and, turning round, saw that Spicca was standing at his shoulder, He was shocked by the melancholy count’s face, though he was used to meeting him almost every day. The haggard and cadaverous features, the sunken and careworn eyes, contrasted almost horribly with the freshness and gayety of Orsino’s companions, and the brilliant light in the room threw the man’s deadly pallor into strong relief.

“Will you play, count? ” asked Orsino, making room for him.

“Thanks, no. I never play nowadays,” answered Spicca quietly.

He turned and left the room. With all his apparent weakness his step was not unsteady, though it was slower than in the old days.

“He sighed in that way because we did not quarrel, ” said the man whose quoted proverb had annoyed Orsino.

“I am ready and anxious to quarrel with everybody to-night, ” replied Orsino. “ Let us play baccarat, — that is much better.”

Spicca left the club alone, and walked slowly homewards to his small lodging in the Via della Croce. A few dying embers smouldered in the little fireplace which warmed his sitting-room. He stirred them slowly, took a stick of wood from the wicker basket, hesitated a moment, and then put it back again instead of burning it. The night was not cold, and wood was very dear. He sat down under the light of the old lamp which stood upon the mantelpiece, and drew along breath. But presently, putting his hand into the pocket of his overcoat in search of his cigarette case, he drew out something else which he had almost forgotten, a small something wrapped in coarse paper. He undid it, and looked at the little frame of chiseled brass which Donna Tullia had seen him buying in the afternoon, turning it over and over absently, as though thinking of something else. Then he fumbled in his pockets again, and found a photograph which he had also bought in the course of the day, — the photograph of Gouache’s latest portrait, obtained in a contraband fashion and with some difficulty from the photographer.

Without hesitation Spicca took a pocket-knife and began to cut the head out, with that extraordinary neatness and precision which characterized him when he used any sharp instrument. The head just fitted the frame. He fastened it in with drops of sealingwax, and carefully burned the rest of the picture in the embers.

The face of Maria Consuelo smiled at him in the lamplight, as he turned the picture in different ways so as to find the best aspect of it. Then he hung it on a nail above the mantelpiece, just under a pair of crossed foils.

“ That man Gouache is a very clever fellow,” said Spicca aloud. “Between them, he and nature have made a good likeness. ”

He sat down again, and it was a long time before he made up his mind to take away the lamp and go to bed.

XIII.

Del Ferice kept his word, and arranged matters for Orsino with a speed and skill which excited the latter’s admiration. The affair was not, indeed, very complicated, though it involved a deed of sale, the transfer of a mortgage, and a deed of partnership between Orsino Saracinesca and Andrea Contini, architect, under the style “Andrea Contini and Company,” besides a contract between this firm, of the one party, and the bank in which Del Ferice was a director, of the other ; the partners agreeing to continue the building of the half-finished house, and the bank binding itself to advance small sums up to a certain amount for current expenses of material and workmen’s wages. Orsino signed everything required of him, after reading the documents, and Andrea Contini followed his example.

The architect was a tall man, with bright brown eyes, a dark and somewhat ragged beard, close-cropped hair, a prominent bony forehead, and large, coarsely shaped, thin ears oddly set upon his head. He habitually wore a dark overcoat, of which the collar was generally turned up on one side, and not on the other. Judging from the appearance of his strong shoes, he had always been walking a long distance over bad roads, and when it had rained within the week his trousers were generally bespattered with mud to a considerable height above the heel. He habitually carried an extinguished cigar between his teeth, of which he chewed the thin black end uneasily. Orsino fancied that he might be about eight-and-twenty years old, and was not altogether displeased with his appearance. He was not at all like the majority of his kind, who, in Rome at least, usually affect a scrupulous dandyism of attire and an uncommon refinement of manner. Whatever Contini’s faults might prove to be, Orsino did not believe that they would turn out to be those of idleness or vanity. How far he was right in his judgment will appear before long, but he conceived his partner to be gifted, frank, enthusiastic, and careless of outward forms.

As for the architect himself, he surveyed Orsino with a sort of sympathetic curiosity which the latter would have thought unpleasantly familiar if he had understood it. Contini had never before spoken with any personage more exalted than Del Ferice, and he studied the young aristocrat as though he were a being from another world. He hesitated some time as to the proper mode of addressing him, and at last, decided to call him “Signor Principe.” Orsino seemed quite satisfied with this, and the architect was inwardly pleased when the young man said “Signor Contini ” instead of “Contini" alone. It was quite clear that Del Ferice had already acquainted him with all the details of the situation, for he seemed to understand all the documents at a glance, picking out and examining the important clauses with unfailing acuteness, and pointing with his finger to the place where Orsino was to sign his name. At the end of the interview Orsino shook hands with Del Ferice and thanked him warmly for his kindness, after which he and his partner went out together. They stood side by side upon the pavement for a few seconds, each wondering what the other was going to say.

“ Perhaps we had better go and look at the house. Signor Principe. ” observed Contini, in the midst of an ineffectual effort to light the stump of his cigar.

“I think so, too,” answered Orsino, realizing that since he had acquired the property it would be as well to know how it looked. “You see I have trusted my adviser entirely in the matter, and I am ashamed to say I do not know where the house is.”

Andrea Contini looked at him curiously.

“ This is the first time that you have had anything to do with business of this kind, Signor Principe, ” he observed. “ You have fallen into good hands. ”

“Yours?” inquired Orsino, a little stiffly.

“No. I mean that Count Del Ferice is a good adviser in this matter.”

“I hope so.”

“I am sure of it,” said Contini, with conviction. “It would be a great surprise to me if we failed to make a handsome profit by this contract.”

“There is luck and ill luck in everything, ” answered Orsino, signaling to a passing cab. The two men exchanged few words as they drove up to the new quarter in the direction indicated to the driver by Contini. The cab entered a sort of broad lane, the sketch of a future street, rough with the unrolled metaling of broken stones, the space set apart for the pavement being an uneven path of trodden brown earth. Here and there tall detached houses rose out of the wilderness, mostly covered by scaffoldings and swarming with workmen, but hideous where so far finished as to be visible in all the isolation of their six-storied nakedness. A strong smell of lime, wet earth, and damp masonry was blown into Orsino’s nostrils by the sirocco wind. Contini stopped the cab before an unpromising and deserted erection of poles, boards, and tattered matting.

“This is our house,” he said, getting out. and making another attempt to light his cigar.

“May I offer you a cigarette ? ” asked Orsino, holding out his case.

Contini touched his hat, bowed a little awkwardly, and took one of the cigarettes, which he immediately transferred to his coat pocket.

“If you will allow me, I will smoke it by and by,” he said. “I have not finished my cigar. ”

Orsino stood on the slippery ground beside the stones and contemplated his purchase. All at once his heart sank, and he experienced a profound disgust for everything within the range of his vision. He became suddenly aware of his own total and hopeless ignorance of everything connected with building, theoretical or practical. The sight of the stiff, angular scaffoldings draped with torn straw mattings that flapped fantastically in the southeast wind, the apparent absence of anything like a real house behind them, the blades of grass sprouting abundantly about the foot of each pole and covering the heaps of brown pozzolana earth prepared for making mortar, even the detail of a broken wooden hod before the boarded entrance, — all these things contributed at once to increase his dismay, and to fill him with a bitter sense of inevitable failure. He found nothing to say, as he stood, with his hands in his pockets, staring at the general desolation, but he understood for the first time why women cry for disappointment. And, moreover, this desolation was his own peculiar property, by deed of purchase, and he could not get rid of it. Meanwhile, Andrea Contini stood beside him, examining the scaffoldings with his bright brown eyes, in no way disconcerted by the prospect.

“Shall we go in? ” he asked at last.

“ Do unfinished houses always look like this? ” inquired Orsino, in a hopeless tone, without noticing his companion’s proposition.

“Not always,” answered Contini cheerfully. “It depends upon the amount of work that has been done, and upon other things. Sometimes the foundations sink and the buildings collapse. ”

“Are you sure nothing of the kind has happened here ? asked Orsino. with increasing anxiety.

“I have been several times to look at it since the baker died, and I have not noticed any cracks yet. ” replied the architect, whose coolness seemed almost exasperating.

”I suppose you understand these things, Signor Contini ? ”

Contini laughed, and felt in his poekets for a crumpled paper box of waxlights.

“It is my profession, ” he answered. “And then I built this house from the foundations. If you will come in, Signor Principe, I will show you how solidly the work is done.”

He took a key from his pocket and thrust it into a hole in the boarding, which latter proved to be a rough door and opened noisily upon rusty hinges. Orsino followed him in silence. To the young man’s inexperienced eye the interior of the building was even more depressing than the outside. It smelt like a vault, and a dim gray light entered the square apertures from the curtained scaffoldings without, just sufficient to help one to find a way through the heaps of rubbish that covered the unpaved floors. Contini explained rapidly and concisely the arrangement of the rooms, calling one cave familiarly a dining-room and another a “conjugal bedroom,” as he expressed it, and expatiating upon the facilities of communication which he himself had carefully planned. Orsino listened in silence, and followed his guide patiently from place to place, in and out of dark passages and up flights of stairs as yet unguarded by any rail, until they emerged upon a sort of flat terrace intersected by low walls, which was indeed another floor, and above which another story and a garret were yet to be built to complete the house. Orsino looked gloomily about him, lighted a cigarette, and sat down upon a bit of masonry.

“To me it looks very like failure,” he remarked. “But I suppose there is something in it. ”

“It will not look like failure next month.” returned Contini carelessly. “Another story is soon built, and then the attic, and then, if you like, a Gothic roof and a turret at one corner. That always attracts buyers first, and respectable lodgers afterwards. ”

“ Let us have a turret, by all means, ” answered Orsino, as though his tailor had proposed to put an extra button on the cuff of his coat. “But how in the world are you going to begin? Everything looks to me as though it were falling to pieces.”

“ Leave all that to me, Signor Principe. We will begin to-morrow. I have a good overseer, and there are plenty of workmen to be had. We have material for a week, at least, and paid for, excepting a few cartloads of lime. Come again in ten days and you will see something worth looking at.”

“In ten days? And what am I to do in the mean time?” asked Orsino, who fancied that he had found an occupation.

Andrea Contini looked at him in some surprise, not understanding in the least what he meant.

“I mean, am I to have nothing to do with the work ? ” added Orsino.

“Oh. as far as that goes, you will come every day, Signor Principe, if it amuses you; though, as you are not a practical architect, your assistance is not needed until questions of taste have to be considered, such as the Gothic roof, for instance. But there are the accounts to be kept, of course, and there is the business with the bank from week to week, office work of various kinds. That becomes, naturally, your department, as the practical superintendence of the building is mine; but you will of course leave it to the steward of the Signor Principe di Sant’ Ilario, who is a man of affairs.”

“I shall do nothing of the kind! ” exclaimed Orsino. “I will do it myself. I will learn how it is done. I want occupation.”

“ What an extraordinary wish! ” Andrea Contini opened his eyes in real astonishment.

“ Is it? You work. Why should not I?”

“I must, find you need not, Signor Principe,” observed Contini. “But if you insist, then you had better get a clerk to explain the details to you at first.”

“ Do you not understand them ? Can you not teach me? ” asked Orsino. displeased with the idea of employing a third person.

“Oh, yes, I have been a clerk myself. I should be too much honored, but — the fact is, my spare time ” —

He hesitated, and seemed reluctant to explain.

“What do you do with your spare time?” asked Orsino, suspecting some love affair.

“The fact is — I play a second violin at one of the theatres, and I give lessons on the mandolin, and sometimes I do copying work for my uncle, who is a clerk in the Treasury. You see, he is old. and his eyes are not as good as they were.”

Orsino began to think that his partner was a very odd person. He could not help smiling at the enumeration of his architect’s secondary occupations.

“You are very fond of music, then ? ” he asked.

“ Eh — yes — as one can be, without talent — a little by necessity. To be an architect one must have houses to build. You see, the baker died unexpectedly. One must live somehow.”

“And could you not—how shall I say? Would you not be willing to give me lessons in book-keeping instead of teaching some one else to play the mandolin ? ”

“You would not care to learn the mandolin yourself, Signor Principe ? It is a very pretty instrument, especially for country parties, as well as for serenading. ”

Orsino laughed. He did not see himself in the character of a mandolinist,

“I have not the slightest ear for music,” he answered. “I would much rather learn something about business.”

“It is less amusing,” said Andrea Contini regretfully. “But I am at your service. I will come to the office when work is over, and we will do the accounts together. You will learn in that way very quickly.”

“Thank you. I suppose we must have an office. It is necessary, is it not ? ”

“Indispensable; a room, a garret, — anything; a habitation, a legal domicile, so to say.”

“Where do you live, Signor Contini? Would not your lodging do? ”

“I am afraid not, Signor Principe; at least not for the present. I am not very well lodged, and the stairs are badly lighted.”

“Why not here, then?” asked Orsino, suddenly becoming desperately practical, for he felt unaccountably reluctant to hire an office in the city.

“We should pay no rent, ” said Contini. “It is an idea. The walls are dry downstairs, and we need only a pavement, and plastering, and doors and windows, and papering, and some furniture, to make one of the rooms quite habitable. It is an idea, undoubtedly. Besides, it would give the house an air of being inhabited, which is valuable.”

“ How long will all that take ? A month or two ? ”

“About a week. It will be a little fresh, but if you are not. rheumatic, Signor Principe, we can try it.”

“I am not rheumatic,” laughed Orsino, who was pleased with the idea of having his office on the spot, and apparently in the midst of a wilderness. “And I suppose you really do understand architecture, Signor Contini, though you do play the fiddle?

In this exceedingly sketchy way was the firm of Andrea Contini and Company established and lodged, being at the time in a very shadowy state, theoretically and practically, though it was destined to play a more prominent part in affairs than either of the young partners anticipated. Orsino discovered before long that his partner was a man of skill and energy, and his spirits rose by degrees as the work began to advance. Contini was restless, untiring, and gifted, such a character as Orsino had not yet met in his limited experience of the world. The man appeared to understand his business to the smallest details, and could show the workmen how to mix mortar in the right proportions, or how to strengthen a scaffolding at the weak point, much better than the overseer or the master builder. At the books he seemed to be infallible, and he possessed, moreover, such a power of stating things clearly and neatly that Orsino actually learnt from him in a few weeks what he would have needed six months to learn anywhere else. As soon as the first dread of failure wore off, Orsino discovered that he was happier than he had ever been in the course of his life before. What he did was not, indeed, of much use in the progress of the office work, and rather hindered than helped Contini, who was obliged to do everything slowly, and sometimes twice over, in order to make his pupil understand; but Orsino had a clear and practical mind, and did not forget what he had learned once. An odd sort of friendship sprang up between the two men, who under ordinary circumstances would never have met, or known each other by sight. The one had expected to find in his partner an overbearing, ignorant patrician; the other had supposed that his companion would turn out a vulgar, sordid, half - educated builder. Both were equally surprised when each discovered the truth about the other.

Though Orsino was reticent by nature, he took no especial pains to conceal his goings and comings, but, as his occupation took him out of the ordinary beat followed by his idle friends, it was a long time before any of them discovered that he was engaged in practical business. In his own home he was not questioned, and he said nothing. The Saraeinesca were considered eccentric, but no one interfered with them nor ventured to offer them suggestions. If they chose to allow their heir absolute liberty of action, merely because he bad passed his twenty-first birthday, it was their own concern, and his ruin would be upon their own heads. No one cared to risk a savage retort from the aged prince, or a cutting answer from Sant’ Ilario, for the questionable satisfaction of telling either that Orsino was going to the bad. The only person who really knew what Orsino was about, and who could have claimed the right to speak to his family of his doings, was San Giacinto, and he held his peace, having plenty of important affairs of his own to occupy him, and being blessed with an especial gift for leaving other people to themselves.

Sant’ Ilario never spied upon his son, as many of his contemporaries would have done in his place. He preferred to trust him to his own devices so long as these led to no great mischief. He saw that Orsino was less restless than formerly, that he was less at the club, and that he was stirring earlier in the morning than had been his wont, and he was well satisfied.

It was not to be expected, however, that Orsino should take Maria Consuelo literally at her word, and cease from visiting her all at once. If not really in love with her, he was at least so much interested in her that he sorely missed the daily half hour or more which he had been used to spend in her society. Three several times he went to her hotel at the accustomed hour, and each time he was told by the porter that she was at home; but on each occasion, also, when he sent up his card, the hotel servant returned with a message from the maid to the effect that Madame d’Aranjuez was tired and did not receive. Orsino’s pride rebelled equally against making a further attempt and against writing a letter requesting an explanation. Once only, when he was walking alone, she passed him in a carriage, and she acknowledged his bow quietly and naturally, as though nothing had happened. He fancied she was paler than usual, and that there were shadows under her eyes which he had not formerly noticed. Possibly, he thought, she was really not in good health, and the excuses made through her maid were not wholly invented. He was conscious that his heart beat a little faster as he watched the back of the brougham disappearing in the distance, but he did not feel an irresistible longing to make another and more serious attempt to see her. He tried to analyze his own sensations, and it seemed to him that he rather dreaded a meeting than desired it, and that he felt a certain humiliation for which he could not account. In the midst of his analysis his cigarette went out, and he sighed. He was startled by such an expression of feeling, and tried to remember whether he had ever sighed before in his life; but if he had, he could not recall the circumstances. He sought to console himself with the absurd supposition that he was sleepy, and that the long-drawn breath had been only a suppressed yawn. Then he walked on, gazing before him into the purple haze that filled the deep street just as the sun was setting, and a vague sadness and longing touched him which had no place in his catalogue of permissible emotions, and which were as far removed from the cold cynicism which be admired in others and affected in himself as they were beyond the sphere of his analysis.

There is an age, not always to be fixed exactly, at which the really masculine nature craves the society of womankind, in one shape or another, as a necessity of existence; and by the society of womankind no one means merely the daily and hourly social intercourse which consists in exchanging the same set of remarks half a dozen times a day with as many beings of the gentle sex. who, to the careless eye of ordinary man, differ from one another in dress rather than in face or thought. There are eminently manly men, that is to say men fearless, strong, honorable, and active, to whom the common five o’clock tea presents as much distraction and offers as much womanly sympathy as they need; who choose their intimate friends among men rather than among women; and who die at an advanced age without ever having been more than comfortably in love, — and of such is the kingdom of heaven. The masculine man may be as brave, as strong, and as scrupulously just in all his dealings, but, on the other hand, he may be weak, cowardly, and a cheat, and he is apt to inherit the portion of sinners, whatever his moral characteristics may be, good or bad.

Orsino was certainly not unmanly, but he was also eminently masculine, and he began to suffer from the loss of Maria Consuelo’s conversation in a way that surprised himself. His acquaintance with her, to give it a mild name, had been the first of the kind which he had enjoyed, and it contrasted too strongly with the crude experiences of his untried youth not to be highly valued by him and deeply regretted. He might pretend to laugh at it, and repeat to himself that his Egeria had been but a very superficial person, fervent in the reading of the daily novel, and possibly not even worldly wise; he did not miss her any the less for that. A little sympathy and much patience in listening will go far to make a woman of small gifts indispensable even to a man of superior talent, especially when he thinks himself misunderstood in his ordinary surroundings. The sympathy passes for intelligence, and the patience for assent and encouragement. A touch of the hand, and there is friendship; a tear, a sigh, and devotion stands upon the stage, bearing in her arms an infant love who learns to walk his part at the first suspicion of a kiss.

Orsino did not imagine that he had exhausted the world’s capabilities of happiness. The age of Byronism, as it used to be called, is over. Possibly tragedies are more real and frequent in our day than when the century was young; at all events, those which take place seem to draw a new element of horror from the undefinable, mechanical, prosaic, pseudo-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 distill 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 any rate, 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 forever the hope of seeing her in his own circle. She appeared to avoid even the Gray 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 favorite 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 conscious that he looked at her from time to time, and dropped her novel upon her knee.

“Are you going out. Orsino?” she asked.

“I hardly know. ” he answered. “There is nothing particular to do, and it is too late for the theatre.”

“Then stay with me. Let us talk.” She looked at him affectionately, and pointed to a low chair near her.

He drew it up until he could see her face as she spoke, and then sat down.

“What shall we talk about, mother?” he asked, with a smile.

“About yourself, if you like, my dear. That is, if you have anything you know I would like to hear. I am not curious, am I. Orsino ? I never ask you questions about yourself.”

“No, indeed. You never tease me with questions; nor does my father, either, for that matter. Would you really like to know what I am doing? ”

“If you will tell me.”

“I am building a house,” said Orsino, looking at her to see the effect of the announcement.

“A house? ” repeated Corona in surprise. “Where? Does your father know about it ? ”

“He said he did not care what I did.” Orsino spoke rather bitterly.

“That does not sound like him, my dear. Tell me all about it. Have you quarreled with him, or had words together? ”

Orsino told his story quickly, concisely, and with a frankness he would perhaps not have shown to any one else in the world, for he did not even conceal his connection with Del Ferice. Corona listened intently, and her deep eyes told him plainly enough that she was interested. On his part, he found an unexpected pleasure in telling her the tale, and he wondered why it had never occurred to him that his mother might sympathize with his plans and aspirations. When he had finished, he waited for her first word almost as anxiously as he would have waited for an expression of opinion from Maria Consuelo.

Corona did not speak at once. She looked into his eyes, smiled, patted his lean brown hand lovingly, and smiled again before she spoke.

“I like it,” she said at last. “I like you to be independent and determined. You might perhaps have chosen a better man than Del Ferice for your adviser. He did something once — Well, never mind. It was long ago, and it did us no harm.”

“What did he do, mother? I know my father wounded him in a duel before you were married ” —

“It was not that. I would rather not tell you about it, — it can do no good; and after all, it has nothing to do with the present affair. He would not be so foolish as to do you an injury now. I know him very well. He is far too clever for that.”

“He is certainly clever,” said Orsino. He knew that it would be quite useless to question his mother further, after what she had said. “I am glad that you do not think I have made a mistake in going into this business.”

“No, I do not think you have made a mistake, and I do not believe that your father will think so, either, when he knows all about it.”

“He need not have been so icily discouraging, ” observed Orsino.

“He is a man, my dear, and I am a woman, — that is the difference. Was San Giacinto more encouraging than he? No. They think alike, and San Giacinto has an immense experience besides. And yet they are both wrong. You may succeed, or you may fail, — I hope you will succeed, — but I do not care much for the result. It is the principle I like, the idea, the independence of the thing. As I grow old, I think more than I used to do when I was young. ”

“How can you talk of growing old ? ” exclaimed Orsino indignantly.

“I think more,” said Corona again, without heeding him. “One of my thoughts is that our old restricted life was a mistake for us, and that to keep it. up would be a sin for you. The world used to stand still in those days, and we stood at the head of it, or thought we did. But it is moving now, and you must move with it, or you will not only have to give up your place, but you will be left behind altogether.”

“I had no idea that you were so modern, dearest mother, ” laughed Orsino. He felt suddenly very happy and in the best of humors with himself.

“ Modern. — no, I do not think that either your father or I could ever be that. If you had lived our lives, you would see how impossible it is. The most I can hope to do is to understand you and your brothers as you grow up to be men. But I hate interference and I hate curiosity, — the one breeds opposition, and the other dishonesty; and if the other boys turn out to be as reticent as you, Orsino, I shall not always know when they want me. You do not realize how much you have been away from me since you were a boy, nor how silent you have grown when you are at home.”

“Am I, mother? I never meant to be.”

“I know it, dear, and I do not want you to be always confiding in me. It is not a good thing for a young man. You are strong, and the more you rely on yourself the stronger you will grow. But when you want sympathy, if you ever do, remember that I have my whole heart full of it for you. For that, at least, come to me. No one can give you what I can give you, dear son.”

Orsino was touched and pressed her hand, kissing it more than once. He did not know whether, in her last words, she had meant any allusion to Maria Consuelo, or whether, indeed, she had been aware of his intimacy with the latter. But he did not ask the question of her nor of himself. For the moment he felt that a want in his nature had been satisfied, and he wondered again why he had never thought of confiding in his mother.

They talked of his plans until it was late, and from that time they were more often together than before, each growing daily more proud of the other, though perhaps Orsino had better reasons for his pride than Corona could have found, for the love of mother for son is more comprehensive, and not less blind, than the passion of woman for man.

F. Marion Crawford.