nte, there are very few of us nowadays who believe in a Deity.
Creation is a mere caprice of the natural elements. The best thing we
can do is to enjoy ourselves while we live; we have a very short time
of it, and when we die there is an end of all things so far as we are
concerned."

"That is your creed?" I asked.

"That is my creed, certainly. It was Solomon's in his heart of hearts.
'Eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die.' It is the creed of
Naples, and of nearly all Italy. Of course the vulgar still cling to
exploded theories of superstitious belief, but the educated classes are
far beyond the old-world notions."

"I believe you," I answered, composedly. I had no wish to argue with
him; I only sought to read his shallow soul through and through that I
might be convinced of his utter worthlessness. "According to modern
civilization there is really no special need to be virtuous unless it
suits us. The only thing necessary for pleasant living is to avoid
public scandal."

"Just so!" agreed Ferrari; "and that can always be easily managed. Take
a woman's reputation--nothing is so easily lost, we all know, before
she is actually married; but marry her well, and she is free. She can
have a dozen lovers if she likes, and if she is a good manager her
husband need never be the wiser. He has HIS amours, of course--why
should she not have hers also? Only some women are clumsy, they are
over-sensitive and betray themselves too easily; then the injured
husband (carefully concealing his little peccadilloes) finds everything
out and there is a devil of a row--a moral row, which is the worst kind
of row. But a really clever woman can always steer clear of slander if
she likes."

Contemptible ruffian! I thought, glancing at his handsome face and
figure with scarcely veiled contempt. With all his advantages of
education and his well-bred air he was yet ruffian to the core--as low
in nature, if not lower, than the half-savage tramp for whom no social
law has ever existed or ever will exist. But I merely observed:

"It is easy to see that you have a thorough knowledge of the world and
its ways. I admire your perception! From your remarks I judge that you
have no sympathy with marital wrongs?"

"Not the least," he replied, dryly; "they are too common and too
ludicrous. The 'wronged husband,' as he considers himself in such
cases, always cuts such an absurd figure."

"Always?" I inquired, with apparent curiosity.

"We