ever fell from any lips. "Caro mio, if I speak a little lightly of your lovely Idalia, whose fault is it?—'is it not thine, O my friend?' Altro! keep that style for men who have not worn the badge of silver ivy with you at an opera ball. As regards this affair—he is certainly in love with her; she possibly encourages it. Unlikely, I know, but still—I repeat—possible. He is an excessively fine man! Therefore, since you cannot appear in the matter, owing to various little intricacies, what steps will you take? It is a delicate question, cher Conrad; the Countess Idalia is not a woman to brook open interference:—even with your title to give it. She is very proud! I am wholly with you, and I am not inclined to be very simpatico to that Arab-looking courier; but you must really be cautious how you touch him; that matter would look very ugly if it turned up against you. The idea of firing at him at all!—and then of not hitting him when you did fire! Will you not believe me how very mistaken all impulsiveness is?"
Phaulcon writhed under the negligent, gently-uttered phrases; all the pent passion in him was tenfold hotter and darker, because it was in so great a measure powerless; but he was blinded to all that Victor chose him to be blind to—namely, his com-
