you not?"

I bowed. I understood him perfectly. He wanted no more poachers on the
land he himself had pilfered. Quite right, from his point of view! But
I was the rightful owner of the land after all, and I naturally had a
different opinion of the matter. However, I made no remark, and feigned
to be rather bored by the turn the conversation was taking. Seeing
this, Ferrari exerted himself to be agreeable; he became a gay and
entertaining companion once more, and after he had fixed the hour for
our visit to the Villa Romani the next afternoon, our talk turned upon
various matters connected with Naples and its inhabitants and their
mode of life. I hazarded a few remarks on the general immorality and
loose principles that prevailed among the people, just to draw my
companion out and sound his character more thoroughly--though I thought
I knew his opinions well.

"Pooh, my dear conte," he exclaimed, with a light laugh, as he threw
away the end of his cigar, and watched it as it burned dully like a
little red lamp among the green grass where it had fallen, "what is
immorality after all? Merely a matter of opinion. Take the hackneyed
virtue of conjugal fidelity. When followed out to the better end what
is the good of it--where does it lead? Why should a man be tied to one
woman when he has love enough for twenty? The pretty slender girl whom
he chose as a partner in his impulsive youth may become a fat, coarse,
red-faced female horror by the time he has attained to the full vigor
of manhood--and yet, as long as she lives, the law insists that the
full tide of passion shall flow always in one direction--always to the
same dull, level, unprofitable shore! The law is absurd, but it exists;
and the natural consequence is that we break it. Society pretends to be
horrified when we do--yes, I know; but it is all pretense. And the
thing is no worse in Naples than it is in London, the capital of the
moral British race, only here we are perfectly frank, and make no
effort to hide our little sins, while there, they cover them up
carefully and make believe to be virtuous. It is the veriest
humbug--the parable of Pharisee and Publican over again.

"Not quite," I observed, "for the Publican was repentant, and Naples is
not."

"Why should she be?" demanded Ferrari, gayly; "what, in the name of
Heaven, is the good of being penitent about anything? Will it mend
matters? Who is to be pacified or pleased by our contrition? God? My
dear co