THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
ordinary human being. To-night, for the first time in weeks, I was almost happy. The fine music, the beauty of the night. … Well, that photograph has spoiled it all. Throw it away, please."
Piece by piece it fluttered into the night. At first it hurt him; then he saw it from a different and less romantic angle. It had been touched by other hands, men's hands. He was rather relieved to see the last piece skim the parapet.
He bade her good night at the door of the hotel and dismissed the carriage. He had so much to think about that he preferred walking down to the Parker. The Corso was deserted. Once he stopped and looked down over the parapet, toward the harbor. The lights formed a necklace of iridescent pearls, flickering and shimmering like real ones that lay upon a woman's breast. Pearls. Once more he saw the chamois bag. It seemed to dance a devil's dance before his eyes, and his nails bit his palms as he struggled to crush down the ugly head of distrust. This mystery concerned him, therefore he hated it. It wasn't the right kind of mystery; it repelled, it did not attract.
And yet, there had been no alarm, no evidence of guilt; only a troubled weariness. "Throw it away," was all she had said.
"Lord, if I only knew something about women!" he murmured—a cry which has beset the male mind since the days of Adam.
He turned away from the parapet and gazed toward Vesuvius. To-night there was an inter-
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