I did n't know how to walk in
the road I made myself," said Harcourt, laughing.

"What a happy laugh that was, Harcourt! How plainly, too, it said,
'Thank Heaven I 'm not like that fellow, with all his craft!' And you
are right too, my dear friend; if the devil were to walk the world now,
he 'd be bored beyond endurance, seeing nothing but the old vices played
over again and again. And so it is with all of us who have a spice of
his nature; we'd give anything to see one new trick on the cards. Good
night, and pleasant dreams to you!" And with a sigh that had in its
cadence something almost painful, he gave his two fingers to the honest
grasp of the other, and withdrew.

"You're a better fellow than you think yourself, or wish any one else
to believe you," muttered Harcourt, as he puffed his cigar; and he
ruminated over this reflection till it was bedtime.

And Harcourt was right.

CHAPTER XL. UPTONISM

About noon on the following day, Sir Horace Upton and the Colonel drove
up to the gate of the villa at Sorrento, and learned, to their no small
astonishment, that the Princess had taken her departure that morning for
Como. If Upton heard these tidings with a sense of pain, nothing in his
manner betrayed the sentiment; on the contrary, he proceeded to do the
honors of the place like its owner. He showed Harcourt the grounds and
the gardens, pointed out all the choice points of view, directed his
attention to rare plants and curious animals; and then led him within
doors to admire the objects of art and luxury which abounded there.

"And that, I conclude, is a portrait of the Princess," said Harcourt, as
he stood before what had been a flattering likeness twenty years back.

"Yes, and a wonderful resemblance," said Upton, eying it through
his glass. "Fatter and fuller now, perhaps; but it was done after an
illness."

"By Jove!" muttered Harcourt, "she must be beautiful; I don't think I
ever saw a handsomer woman!"

"You are only repeating a European verdict. She is the most perfectly
beautiful woman of the Continent."

"So there is no flattery in that picture?"

"Flattery! Why, my dear fellow, these people, the very cleverest of
them, can't imagine anything as lovely as that. They can imitate,--they
never invent real beauty."

"And clever, you say, too?"

"_Esprit_ enough for a dozen reviewers and fifty fashionable novelists."
And as he spoke he smiled and coquetted with the portrait, as though to
say,