the Piazza, the Mercato, down one or two streets to see
the illuminations. What's the matter, caro mio? Are you angry because we
lost you in the crowd?"

"You intended to lose us in the crowd before we left the hotel
to-night."

"Not at all, amico mio. Not at all."

His voice hardened again, the furrows appeared on his forehead.

"Now you are lying," said Artois.

The Marchesino got up and stood in front of Artois. The ugly, cat-like
look had come into his face, changing it from its usual boyish impudence
to a hardness that suggested age. At that moment he looked much older
than he was.

"Be careful, Emilio!" he said. "I am Neapolitan, and I do not allow
myself to be insulted."

His gray eyes contracted.

"You did not mean to get lost with the Signorina?" said Artois.

"One leaves such things to destiny."

"Destiny! Well, to-night it is your destiny to go out of the Signorina's
life forever."

"How dare you command me? How dare you speak for these ladies?"

Suddenly Artois went quite white, and laid his hand on the Marchesino's
arm.

"Where have you been? What have you been doing all this time?" he said.

Questions blazed in his eyes. His hand closed more firmly on the
Marchesino.

"Where did you take that child? What did you say to her? What did you
dare to say?"

"I! And you?" said the Marchesino, sharply.

He threw out his hand towards the face of Artois. "And you--you!" he
repeated.

"I?"

"Yes--you! What have you said to her? Where have you taken her? I at
least am young. My blood speaks to me. I am natural, I am passionate. I
know what I am, what I want; I know it; I say it; I am sincere. I--I am
ready to go naked into the sun before the whole world, and say, 'There!
There! This is Isidoro Panacci; and he is this--and this--and this! Like
it or hate it--that does not matter! It is not his fault. He is like
that. He is made like that. He is meant to be like that, and he is
that--he is that!' Do you hear? That is what I am ready to do. But
you--you--! Ah, Madonna! Ah, Madre benedetta!"

He threw up both his hands suddenly, looked at the ceiling and shook
his head sharply from side to side. Then he slapped his hands gently and
repeatedly against his knees, and a grim and almost venerable look came
into his mobile face.

"The great worker! The man of intellect! The man who is above the
follies of that little Isidoro Panacci, who loves a beautiful girl, and
who is proud of loving her, and