us of good people
before. He will not let me eat and drink in my own house to-day!
That is as much as to say that I have enemies within my gates. What
could be more distressing?"

"A precaution."

"Suspicion is inconceivably painful to me. I will not harbour
suspicion. When suspicion dawns in my mind, I instantly throw over
the cause of the suspicion. If it is a book, however precious it may
be, I drop it once for all. I will not be tormented by doubts or
suspicions. In this house are Assunta and Ernesto, my niece and her
husband. To suspect any of those excellent and honourable people is
abominable and I am quite incapable of doing so."

"Only a few hours. Then, I think, all but one will be exonerated.
Indeed I'm sure of it."

"Giuseppe appears to be the storm centre in Peter's mind. It is all
beyond my understanding. He has always treated me with courtesy and
consideration. He has a sense of humour and perceives that human
nature lacks much that we could wish it possessed. He feels rightly
toward literature, too, and reads desirable authors. He is a good
European and is the only man I know, save Poggi, who understands
Nietzsche. All this is in his favor; and yet even Jenny appears to
regard Giuseppe as wholly ineffectual. She openly hints that she is
disappointed in him. I know what may go to make a man; but am, I
confess, quite ignorant of what goes to make a husband. No doubt a
good man may be a bad husband, because the female has her own
marital standards; yet what she wants, or does not want, I cannot
tell."

"You like Doria?"

"I have had no reason to do otherwise. I trust that this unhappy
brother of mine--if, indeed, he is what you all think and not an
air-drawn vision projected by your subconscious minds--may soon be
laid by the heels--for his own sake as much as ours. I will now read
in 'The Consolations of Boethius'--last of the Latin authors
properly so called--and smoke a cigar. I shall not see Giuseppe. I
have promised. It is understood that I am an invalid; but he will
certainly be hurt that I deny myself to him. The man has a heart as
well as a head."

He rose and went to a little bookshelf of his favourite authors.
Then he buried himself in Boethius, and Mark, looking out of the
window, saw the life of the lake and the glory of the summer sky
reflected. Beyond the shining water Bellagio's towers and cypresses
were massed under a little mountain. From time to time there sounded
the beat of p