less you would rather go to my lodgings."
     "No; come  and  dine  with me  at  a restaurant.  There's  one  on  the
Signoria. Please don't refuse, now; you've promised!"
     They  went  into a  restaurant, where  he ordered  dinner,  but  hardly
touched his own share, and remained obstinately silent,  crumbling the bread
over the cloth,  and  fidgeting with  the fringe of his table napkin.  Gemma
felt  thoroughly uncomfortable,  and began to wish she had refused  to come;
the silence was growing awkward; yet she could not begin to  make small-talk
with  a person who seemed to have forgotten her presence. At last he  looked
up and said abruptly:
     "Would you like to see the variety show?"
     She stared at him in astonishment. What had he got into his head  about
variety shows?
     "Have you ever seen one?" he asked before she had time to speak.
     "No; I don't think so. I didn't suppose they were interesting."
     "They are very interesting. I don't think anyone can study the  life of
the people without seeing them. Let us go back to the Porta alla Croce."
     When they arrived the mountebanks had set up their tent beside the town
gate, and  an abominable scraping of fiddles and banging of drums  announced
that the performance had begun.
     The  entertainment was of the roughest kind.  A few clowns, harlequins,
and  acrobats,  a circus-rider jumping through hoops, the painted columbine,
and the hunchback performing various  dull  and foolish antics,  represented
the entire force of the company. The jokes were not, on the whole, coarse or
offensive;  but they were very tame  and  stale, and there was a  depressing
flatness about the whole thing. The audience  laughed and clapped from their
innate Tuscan courtesy; but the only part which they  seemed really to enjoy
was the  performance  of the  hunchback, in which Gemma  could  find nothing
either witty  or skilful. It  was merely a  series  of grotesque and hideous
contortions,  which  the spectators mimicked, holding  up children  on their
shoulders that the little ones might see the "ugly man."
     "Signor  Rivarez,  do  you really think this  attractive?" said  Gemma,
turning to the Gadfly, who was standing beside her, his arm round one of the
wooden posts of the tent. "It seems to me----"
     She broke off and remained looking at him silently. Except when she had
stood with Montanelli  at  the garden gate in Leghorn, she had never  seen a
human  face express such fathomless, hopeless misery. She thought of Dante's
hell as she watched him.
     Presently the  hunchback, receiving  a  kick  from one  of  the clowns,
turned  a  somersault  and  tumbled in a grotesque  heap outside the ring. A
dialogue  between two clowns began, and  the Gadfly seemed to wake  out of a
dream.
     "Shall we go?" he asked; "or would you like to see more?"
     "I would rather go."
     They left  the tent, and walked across the dark green to the river. For
a few moments neither spoke.
     "What did you think of the show?" the Gadfly asked presently.
     "I thought  it rather a  dreary business; and part of  it  seemed to me
positively unpleasant."
     "Which part?"
     "Well, all those grimaces and  contortions. They are simply ugly; there
is nothing clever about them."
     "Do you mean the hunchback's performance?"
     Remembering  his  peculiar  sensitiveness on  the subject  of  his  own
physical defects,  she had  avoided mentioning this  particular bit  of  the
entertainment; but now  that he  had  touched upon the  subject himself, she
answered: "Yes; I did not like that part at all."
     "That was the part the people enjoyed most."
     "I dare say; and that is just the worst thing about it."
     "Because it was inartistic?"
     "N-no; it was all inartistic. I meant--because it was cruel."
     He smiled.
     "Cruel? Do you mean to the hunchback?"
     "I mean---- Of course the man himself  was quite indifferent; no doubt,
it is to him just a way  of getting a living, like the circus-rider's way or
the columbine's. But the thing makes one feel unhappy. It is humiliating; it
is the degradation of a human being."
     "He probably is  not  any more degraded than he was to start with. Most
of us are degraded in one way or another."
     "Yes; but this--I dare say you will think it an absurd prejudice; but a
human body, to me, is  a  sacred  thing;  I don't  like  to see  it  treated
irreverently and made hideous."
     "And a human soul?"
     He  had stopped  short, and  was  standing  with  one hand on the stone
balustrade of the embankment, looking straight at her.
     "A soul?" she repeated, stopping in her turn to look at him in wonder.
     He flung out both hands with a sudden, passionate gesture.
     "Has it  never occurred to  you that that miserable clown  may  have  a
soul--a living, struggling, human soul,  tied down into that crooked hulk of
a body  and forced  to  slave  for it?  You  that are  so tender-hearted  to
everything--you  that  pity the body in its fool's dress and bells--have you
never  thought of  the wretched soul that has not even  motley to  cover its
horrible nakedness? Think of it shivering with  cold, stilled with shame and
misery,  before all  those  people--feeling their  jeers  that  cut  like  a
whip--their laughter, that burns like red-hot iron  on the bare flesh! Think
of it looking round--so  helpless before  them all--for  the mountains  that
will not fall  on  it--for  the  rocks that  have not  the  heart  to  cover
it--envying the rats that can creep into  some hole in  the  earth and hide;
and  remember that  a  soul is  dumb--it has  no voice  to cry out--it  must
endure, and endure, and endure. Oh! I'm talking nonsense! Why on earth don't
you laugh? You have no sense of humour!"
     Slowly and in dead silence  she turned  and walked  on along the  river
side. During  the whole evening  it had not once occurred  to her to connect
his trouble, whatever it might be, with the variety show;  and now that some
dim  picture  of his  inner life had  been  revealed  to  her by this sudden
outburst, she could not find, in her overwhelming pity for  him, one word to
say. He walked on beside her, with his head turned away, and looked into the
water.
     "I want you, please, to  understand," he began suddenly, turning to her
with a defiant air, "that everything I have just been saying to  you is pure
imagination. I'm rather given to romancing,  but I don't like people to take
it seriously."
     She made no answer, and they walked on in silence.  As they  passed  by
the gateway of the  Uffizi, he crossed the road and stooped down over a dark
bundle that was lying against the railings.
     "What is the matter,  little one?" he asked, more gently than  she  had
ever heard him speak. "Why don't you go home?"
     The bundle moved, and answered something in a low, moaning voice. Gemma
came  across to look, and  saw a child of about six  years  old, ragged  and
dirty, crouching  on the pavement like a  frightened animal. The  Gadfly was
bending down with his hand on the unkempt head.
     "What is  it?" he  said,  stooping lower to  catch  the  unintelligible
answer. "You  ought to go home to bed; little boys have no  business out  of
doors at night; you'll be quite frozen! Give me your hand and jump up like a
man! Where do you live?"
     He took the child's arm to raise him. The result was a sharp scream and
a quick shrinking away.
     "Why, what is  it?" the Gadfly  asked,  kneeling down on the  pavement.
"Ah! Signora, look here!"
     The child's shoulder and jacket were covered with blood.
     "Tell me what has happened?" the Gadfly went on caressingly. "It wasn't
a fall, was it? No? Someone's been beating you? I thought so! Who was it?"
     "My uncle."
     "Ah, yes! And when was it?"
     "This morning. He was drunk, and I--I----"
     "And you got in his way--was that it? You shouldn't get in people's way
when they are drunk, little man; they don't  like it. What shall we  do with
this poor mite,  signora? Come here to the  light, sonny, and let me look at
that shoulder. Put your arm round my neck; I won't hurt you. There we are!"
     He lifted the boy in his arms, and, carrying him across the street, set
him down on  the wide stone balustrade.  Then, taking out a pocket-knife, he
deftly ripped  up the torn sleeve, supporting  the  child's head against his
breast, while Gemma held the injured arm. The shoulder was badly bruised and
grazed, and there was a deep gash on the arm.
     "That's  an  ugly  cut  to give a  mite  like  you,"  said  the Gadfly,
fastening his  handkerchief  round  the  wound  to prevent  the  jacket from
rubbing against it. "What did he do it with?"
     "The  shovel. I went to ask him to give me a soldo to  get some polenta
at the corner shop, and he hit me with the shovel."
     The Gadfly  shuddered. "Ah!"  he said softly, "that hurts; doesn't  it,
little one?"
     "He hit me with the shovel--and I ran away-- I ran away--because he hit
me."
     "And you've been wandering about ever since, without any dinner?"
     Instead  of answering,  the  child began  to  sob violently. The Gadfly
lifted him off the balustrade.
     "There, there! We'll soon set all that straight. I wonder if we can get
a cab anywhere. I'm  afraid they'll all be waiting by the theatre; there's a
grand  performance  going  on to-night.  I am sorry to  drag you  about  so,
signora; but----"
     "I would rather come with you.  You may want help. Do you think you can
carry him so far? Isn't he very heavy?"
     "Oh, I can manage, thank you."
     At the  theatre door they found only a few cabs waiting, and these were
all engaged. The  performance was  over, and most of the  audience had gone.
Zita's name was printed in large letters on the wall-placards; she  had been
dancing in the  ballet. Asking Gemma  to  wait for him  a moment, the Gadfly
went round to the performers' entrance, and spoke to an attendant.
     "Has Mme. Reni gone yet?"
     "No, sir,"  the  man answered, staring blankly at  the  spectacle  of a
well-dressed  gentleman carrying a ragged street child  in  his  arms, "Mme.
Reni is just  coming out,  I think; her carriage  is  waiting for her.  Yes;
there she comes."
     Zita descended the  stairs, leaning  on  the  arm of  a  young  cavalry
officer. She looked superbly handsome, with an opera cloak of flame-coloured
velvet thrown over her evening  dress,  and  a great  fan of ostrich  plumes
hanging from her waist. In the entry she  stopped  short, and,  drawing  her
hand away from the officer's arm, approached the Gadfly in amazement.
     "Felice!" she exclaimed under her breath, "what HAVE you got there?"
     "I have  picked up this child in  the  street. It is hurt and starving;
and I want to get it home as quickly as  possible. There is not a cab to  be
got anywhere, so I want to have your carriage."
     "Felice! you  are not  going  to take a  horrid beggar-child  into your
rooms! Send for a policeman, and let him  carry it to the Refuge or whatever
is the proper place for it. You can't have all the paupers in the town----"
     "It is hurt," the Gadfly repeated; "it can go to  the Refuge to-morrow,
if necessary, but I must see to the child first and give it some food."
     Zita made a little  grimace  of disgust.  "You've got  its  head  right
against your shirt! How CAN you? It is dirty!"
     The Gadfly looked up with a sudden flash of anger.
     "It is hungry," he said fiercely. "You don't  know  what that means, do
you?"
     "Signer Rivarez," interposed Gemma,  coming  forward, "my lodgings  are
quite  close. Let us take the child in  there. Then, if  you  cannot  find a
vettura, I will manage to put it up for the night."
     He turned round quickly. "You don't mind?"
     "Of course not. Good-night, Mme. Reni!"
     The gipsy, with a stiff  bow and an angry shrug of her  shoulders, took
her officer's  arm  again, and, gathering up  the train of  her dress, swept
past them to the contested carriage.
     "I will send it  back  to fetch you  and the  child,  if  you  like, M.
Rivarez," she said, pausing on the doorstep.
     "Very well; I will give the address."  He came out on to the  pavement,
gave the address to the driver, and walked back to Gemma with his burden.
     Katie  was waiting up  for  her  mistress;  and,  on hearing  what  had
happened, ran  for warm  water and other necessaries. Placing the child on a
chair, the Gadfly knelt down beside him, and, deftly slipping off the ragged
clothing,  bathed and bandaged the wound with tender, skilful hands. He  had
just finished washing the boy, and was wrapping him  in a warm blanket, when
Gemma came in with a tray in her hands.
     "Is your  patient ready for  his  supper?"  she  asked, smiling at  the
strange little figure. "I have been cooking it for him."
     The Gadfly stood up and rolled the dirty rags  together. "I'm afraid we
have made a  terrible mess in your room," he  said. "As for  these, they had
better go straight  into the  fire, and  I  will  buy  him some  new clothes
to-morrow. Have you  any brandy  in the house,  signora? I think he ought to
have a little. I will just wash my hands, if you will allow me."
     When the child had finished his supper, he immediately went to sleep in
the Gadfly's arms, with his rough head against the white shirt-front. Gemma,
who had been helping Katie  to set the disordered  room tidy again, sat down
at the table.
     "Signor  Rivarez, you  must take something before you  go home--you had
hardly any dinner, and it's very late."
     "I should like a cup of tea in the English fashion, if you have it. I'm
sorry to keep you up so late."
     "Oh! that doesn't  matter. Put the child down on the sofa; he will tire
you. Wait a minute; I will just lay a sheet  over the cushions. What are you
going to do with him?"
     "To-morrow? Find out  whether he has any other  relations  except  that
drunken brute; and if not,  I suppose I must follow Mme. Reni's  advice, and
take  him to the Refuge. Perhaps the kindest thing to  do would be  to put a
stone round  his neck and pitch  him into the  river there;  but that  would
expose  me to unpleasant consequences. Fast asleep!  What an odd little lump
of ill-luck you are, you mite--not half as capable of  defending yourself as
a stray cat!"
     When Katie brought in the tea-tray, the boy opened his eyes  and sat up
with  a bewildered air.  Recognizing the Gadfly, whom he already regarded as
his natural protector, he wriggled off the sofa, and, much encumbered by the
folds of  his  blanket, came  up  to  nestle  against  him.  He  was by  now
sufficiently revived to be inquisitive; and, pointing to the  mutilated left
hand, in which the Gadfly was holding a piece of cake, asked:
     "What's that?"
     "That? Cake; do you want some? I think  you've had enough for now. Wait
till to-morrow, little man."
     "No--that!"  He  stretched out his  hand  and touched the stumps of the
amputated  fingers and the great scar on the wrist. The Gadfly put  down his
cake.
     "Oh,  that! It's  the  same  sort  of  thing  as what you have on  your
shoulder--a hit I got from someone stronger than I was."
     "Didn't it hurt awfully?"
     "Oh, I don't know--not  more than other things. There, now, go to sleep
again; you have no business asking questions at this time of night."
     When  the  carriage arrived  the boy  was again asleep; and the Gadfly,
without awaking him, lifted him gently and carried him out on to the stairs.
     "You  have been a sort  of ministering angel to me to-day," he said  to
Gemma, pausing  at  the door. "But  I suppose that need not prevent  us from
quarrelling to our heart's content in future."
     "I have no desire to quarrel with anyone."
     "Ah! but I have. Life  would  be unendurable  without  quarrels. A good
quarrel is the salt of the earth; it's better than a variety show!"
     And with that he went downstairs, laughing softly to  himself, with the
sleeping child in his arms.
        PART II: CHAPTER VII.
     ONE day in the first week of January Martini, who  had sent  round  the
forms of invitation to the monthly group-meeting of  the literary committee,
received  from  the  Gadfly  a laconic,  pencil-scrawled "Very sorry:  can't
come." He was a little annoyed, as a notice of "important business" had been
put into  the  invitation; this  cavalier  treatment  seemed to  him  almost
insolent.  Moreover, three  separate letters  containing  bad  news  arrived
during the  day, and  the wind was  in the east, so that Martini felt out of
sorts and out of temper; and when, at the group meeting, Dr. Riccardo asked,
"Isn't Rivarez here?" he answered rather  sulkily: "No; he seems to have got
something more interesting on hand, and can't come, or doesn't want to."
     "Really, Martini,"  said  Galli  irritably,  "you are  about  the  most
prejudiced person in Florence. Once you object to a  man, everything he does
is wrong. How could Rivarez come when he's ill?"
     "Who told you he was ill?"
     "Didn't you know? He's been laid up for the last four days."
     "What's the matter with him?"
     "I don't know. He had to  put off an appointment with me on Thursday on
account of illness; and  last night, when  I went round, I heard that he was
too ill to see anyone. I thought Riccardo would be looking after him."
     "I knew  nothing about it.  I'll go round  to-night and see if he wants
anything."
     The  next  morning  Riccardo, looking very pale  and  tired, came  into
Gemma's little study.  She was sitting at  the table, reading out monotonous
strings of  figures to Martini, who, with a magnifying glass in one hand and
a finely pointed pencil in the other, was making tiny marks  in the pages of
a  book. She made  with one  hand  a gesture  requesting silence.  Riccardo,
knowing that a person who is writing in cipher must  not be interrupted, sat
down on the sofa behind her and yawned like a man who can hardly keep awake.
     "2,  4;  3, 7;  6,  1;  3,  5;  4> 1;"  Gemma's voice  went  on with
machine-like evenness.  "8,  4; 7,  2; 5,  1;  that  finishes  the sentence,
Cesare."
     She stuck a  pin  into the  paper  to mark the exact place,  and turned
round.
     "Good-morning, doctor; how fagged you look! Are you well?"
     "Oh,  I'm well  enough--only  tired  out. I've had an awful night  with
Rivarez."
     "With Rivarez?"
     "Yes;  I've been  up with him  all night, and  now I  must go off to my
hospital patients. I just came round to know whether you can think of anyone
that  could look after him a bit for the next few days. He's in a devil of a
state. I'll do my best, of  course;  but I really haven't  the time;  and he
won't hear of my sending in a nurse."
     "What is the matter with him?"
     "Well, rather a complication of things. First of all----"
     "First of all, have you had any breakfast?"
     "Yes,  thank you. About Rivarez--no doubt,  it's complicated with a lot
of nerve  trouble;  but the main cause of disturbance is an old  injury that
seems  to  have  been  disgracefully   neglected.  Altogether,  he's   in  a
frightfully knocked-about state; I suppose it was that war in  South America
--  and  he  certainly didn't get proper care when  the  mischief was  done.
Probably things were  managed in  a very rough-and-ready fashion out  there;
he's lucky  to  be  alive at all. However,  there's  a chronic  tendency  to
inflammation, and any trifle may bring on an attack----"
     "Is that dangerous?"
     "N-no;  the  chief danger in  a  case  of  that  kind is of the patient
getting desperate and taking a dose of arsenic."
     "It is very painful, of course?"
     "It's simply horrible;  I don't  know how he manages to bear it.  I was
obliged to stupefy him with opium in  the night--a thing I hate to do with a
nervous patient; but I had to stop it somehow."
     "He is nervous, I should think."
     "Very,  but  splendidly   plucky.  As  long  as  he  was  not  actually
light-headed with the pain last night, his coolness was quite wonderful. But
I  had an awful job with him towards the end.  How long  do you suppose this
thing has been going on? Just five nights; and not a soul within call except
that stupid landlady, who wouldn't wake if the house tumbled down, and would
be no use if she did."
     "But what about the ballet-girl?"
     "Yes; isn't that  a curious thing? He won't let her come  near  him. He
has   a   morbid  horror   of  her.   Altogether,  he's  one  of  the   most
incomprehensible creatures I ever met--a perfect mass of contradictions."
     He  took out his watch  and looked  at it with a  preoccupied face.  "I
shall be late at the hospital; but it can't be helped. The junior  will have
to begin  without me  for once.  I wish  I  had known of all this before--it
ought not to have been let go on that way night after night."
     "But  why  on  earth  didn't  he  send  to  say  he  was  ill?" Martini
interrupted. "He might have guessed  we shouldn't have  left him stranded in
that fashion."
     "I wish,  doctor," said Gemma, "that you had sent for  one  of us  last
night, instead of wearing yourself out like this." My dear lady, I wanted to
send  round  to Galli; but Rivarez  got so  frantic at the suggestion that I
didn't dare attempt it. When  I asked  him  whether there was anyone else he
would like fetched, he looked at me for  a minute,  as if he were scared out
of his wits, and then put up both hands to his  eyes  and  said: 'Don't tell
them; they  will laugh!'  He  seemed quite possessed  with some  fancy about
people  laughing  at something. I couldn't  make  out  what; he kept talking
Spanish; but patients do say the oddest things sometimes."
     "Who is with him now?" asked Gemma.
     "No one except the landlady and her maid."
     "I'll go to him at once," said Martini.
     "Thank you. I'll look round  again in the evening. You'll find a  paper
of written directions in the table-drawer by the large window, and the opium
is on  the  shelf in the  next room. If the pain comes  on  again, give  him
another dose--not more than one; but don't leave the bottle where he can get
at it, whatever you do; he might be tempted to take too much."
     When Martini  entered  the  darkened room, the  Gadfly turned  his head
round  quickly,  and,  holding out  to him a burning  hand, began, in  a bad
imitation of his usual flippant manner:
     "Ah, Martini! You have  come to rout me out about those proofs. It's no
use swearing at me for missing the committee last night; the fact is, I have
not been quite well, and----"
     "Never  mind the committee. I have just seen Riccardo, and have come to
know if I can be of any use."
     The Gadfly set his face like a flint.
     "Oh, really! that is very kind of you; but it wasn't worth the trouble.
I'm only a little out of sorts."
     "So  I  understood  from  Riccardo. He was  up  with you all  night,  I
believe."
     The Gadfly bit his lip savagely.
     "I am quite comfortable, thank you, and don't want anything."
     "Very well; then I will sit in the other room; perhaps you would rather
be alone. I will leave the door ajar, in case you call me."
     "Please don't trouble about it; I really shan't want anything. I should
be wasting your time for nothing."
     "Nonsense, man!" Martini broke in roughly. "What's the use of trying to
fool me that way? Do you think I have no eyes? Lie still and go to sleep, if
you can."
     He went into the adjoining room, and,  leaving the  door open, sat down
with  a book.  Presently  he heard the Gadfly move restlessly  two or  three
times. He put down his book and listened.  There was a short  silence,  then
another restless movement;  then the quick, heavy,  panting  breath of a man
clenching his teeth to suppress a groan. He went back into the room.
     "Can I do anything for you, Rivarez?"
     There was  no answer, and  he crossed the room  to  the  bed-side.  The
Gadfly, with a ghastly, livid face, looked at him for a moment, and silently
shook his head.
     "Shall I give you some more opium? Riccardo said you were to have it if
the pain got very bad."
     "No, thank you; I can bear it a bit longer. It may be worse later on."
     Martini  shrugged his shoulders  and  sat  down beside the  bed. For an
interminable hour he watched in silence; then he rose and fetched the opium.
     "Rivarez, I  won't let this go  on any  longer; if  you can stand it, I
can't. You must have the stuff."
     The Gadfly took it without speaking. Then he turned away and closed his
eyes. Martini sat down again, and listened as the breathing became gradually
deep and even.
     The Gadfly was too much exhausted to wake easily when once asleep. Hour
after  hour he  lay  absolutely motionless.  Martini  approached him several
times  during the  day  and  evening,  and looked at  the still figure; but,
except  the breathing, there was  no sign of  life. The face was so  wan and
colourless that at last a  sudden fear seized upon him; what if he had given
too much  opium? The  injured left  arm lay on the coverlet, and he shook it
gently to rouse the sleeper. As he did so, the unfastened sleeve  fell back,
showing  a series of deep and fearful  scars covering  the arm from wrist to
elbow.
     "That arm must have been in a pleasant condition  when those marks were
fresh," said Riccardo's voice behind him.
     "Ah, there you are at  last!  Look  here,  Riccardo; ought  this man to
sleep forever? I gave him a dose about ten hours ago, and he hasn't moved  a
muscle since."
     Riccardo stooped down and listened for a moment.
     "No;  he  is  breathing  quite  properly;   it's  nothing   but   sheer
exhaustion--what you might expect  after  such a night. There may be another
paroxysm before morning. Someone will sit up, I hope?"
     "Galli will; he has sent to say he will be here by ten."
     "It's nearly  that now. Ah, he's  waking! Just see the maidservant gets
that broth  hot. Gently --gently, Rivarez! There,  there, you needn't fight,
man; I'm not a bishop!"
     The Gadfly started up with a shrinking, scared  look. "Is it my  turn?"
he said hurriedly in Spanish. "Keep the people amused a minute; I---- Ah!  I
didn't see you, Riccardo." He looked round the room and drew one hand across
his forehead as if bewildered. "Martini! Why, I thought you had gone away. I
must have been asleep."
     "You have been sleeping like the beauty in the fairy story for the last
ten hours; and now you are to have some broth and go to sleep again."
     "Ten hours! Martini, surely you haven't been here all that time?"
     "Yes; I was beginning to wonder whether I hadn't given  you an overdose
of opium."
     The Gadfly shot a sly glance at him.
     "No such luck! Wouldn't  you  have nice quiet  committee-meetings? What
the devil do you want, Riccardo? Do  for  mercy's sake  leave me  in  peace,
can't you? I hate being mauled about by doctors."
     "Well then, drink this and I'll leave  you in peace. I shall come round
in a day or two, though,  and  give you a thorough overhauling. I  think you
have pulled  through the worst of this business now; you don't look quite so
much like a death's head at a feast."
     "Oh, I shall  be all right  soon, thanks. Who's that--Galli?  I seem to
have a collection of all the graces here to-night."
     "I have come to stop the night with you."
     "Nonsense!  I don't want anyone. Go home, all  the  lot of you. Even if
the thing  should  come on again, you can't  help me;  I  won't keep  taking
opium. It's all very well once in a way."
     "I'm  afraid you're right," Riccardo  said.  "But that's not  always an
easy resolution to stick to."
     The Gadfly looked up, smiling. "No  fear! If I'd been going in for that
sort of thing, I should have done it long ago."
     "Anyway, you are  not going to be left alone," Riccardo answered drily.
"Come  into  the  other  room a minute,  Galli;  I want  to  speak  to  you.
Good-night, Rivarez; I'll look in to-morrow."
     Martini was  following them out  of  the room when  he  heard  his name
softly called. The Gadfly was holding out a hand to him.
     "Thank you!"
     "Oh, stuff! Go to sleep."
     When  Riccardo had gone,  Martini  remained a few minutes in the  outer
room, talking with Galli. As he opened the front door of the house he  heard
a carriage stop at the garden gate and saw a woman's figure get out and come
up  the  path.  It  was  Zita,  returning,  evidently,   from  some  evening
entertainment. He lifted his hat and stood aside to  let her pass, then went
out  into  the dark  lane leading from the  house to the  Poggio  Imperiale.
Presently the gate clicked and rapid footsteps came down the lane.
     "Wait a minute!" she said.
     When he turned back to meet her she stopped short, and then came slowly
towards him, dragging one hand after her along the hedge. There was a single
street-lamp at the corner, and he saw  by its light that she was hanging her
head down as though embarrassed or ashamed.
     "How is he?" she asked without looking up.
     "Much better than he  was this morning. He  has been asleep most of the
day and seems less exhausted. I think the attack is passing over."
     She still kept her eyes on the ground.
     "Has it been very bad this time?"
     "About as bad as it can well be, I should think."
     "I thought so. When he  won't let me come  into the  room,  that always
means it's bad."
     "Does he often have attacks like this?"
     "That depends---- It's  so irregular. Last summer,  in Switzerland,  he
was quite well; but the winter before, when we were in Vienna, it was awful.
He wouldn't let  me  come near him  for days together.  He hates  to have me
about when he's ill."
     She glanced up for a moment, and, dropping her eyes again, went on:
     "He always used to send me off to  a ball, or concert, or something, on
one pretext  or  another, when he  felt it  coming  on.  Then he  would lock
himself into his  room. I  used to slip  back and  sit outside  the door--he
would have been furious  if he'd  known.  He'd  let the  dog  come in if  it
whined, but not me. He cares more for it, I think."
     There was a curious, sullen defiance in her manner.
     "Well, I hope it  won't be so bad any  more," said Martini kindly. "Dr.
Riccardo is  taking the case  seriously in  hand. Perhaps he will be able to
make a permanent improvement. And,  in any case, the treatment gives  relief
at the moment. But you had better send to us at once, another time. He would
have suffered very much less if we had known of it earlier. Good-night!"
     He held  out  his  hand, but  she  drew back  with a  quick  gesture of
refusal.
     "I don't see why you want to shake hands with his mistress."
     "As you like, of course," he began in embarrassment.
     She stamped her foot on the ground. "I hate you!" she cried, turning on
him with  eyes like glowing  coals. "I hate you  all! You come here  talking
politics to him; and  he  lets  you  sit up the  night with him and give him
things to stop the pain, and I  daren't  so much  as peep at him through the
door! What is he to you? What right have you to come and steal him away from
me? I hate you! I hate you! I HATE you!"
     She burst  into  a  violent fit of sobbing, and, darting  back into the
garden, slammed the gate in his face.
     "Good Heavens!" said  Martini to  himself, as he walked down the  lane.
"That  girl  is  actually  in  love  with  him!  Of  all  the  extraordinary
things----"PART II: CHAPTER VIII.
     THE  Gadfly's recovery  was rapid. One  afternoon in the following week
Riccardo found him lying on the  sofa in a  Turkish  dressing-gown, chatting
with Martini  and Galli. He even talked about going downstairs; but Riccardo
merely  laughed at the  suggestion  and asked whether he would  like a tramp
across the valley to Fiesole to start with.
     "You  might  go  and call  on  the  Grassinis  for a change," he  added
wickedly. "I'm sure madame would be  delighted to see you,  especially  now,
when you look so pale and interesting."
     The Gadfly clasped his hands with a tragic gesture.
     "Bless  my soul! I never thought  of  that!  She'd take me for  one  of
Italy's martyrs, and talk  patriotism to me. I should  have to act up to the
part,  and tell  her I've been cut to pieces  in  an underground dungeon and
stuck together  again rather badly; and she'd want to know exactly what  the
process felt like. You don't think she'd believe it, Riccardo? I'll bet  you
my Indian dagger  against  the  bottled  tape-worm  in your den that  she'll
swallow the  biggest lie I can  invent.  That's a generous offer,  and you'd
better jump at it."
     "Thanks, I'm not so fond of murderous tools as you are."
     "Well,  a tape-worm is as  murderous as a dagger, any day, and not half
so pretty."
     "But as it happens, my dear fellow, I don't  want  the dagger and I  do
want the tape-worm. Martini, I  must run  off.  Are  you  in  charge of this
obstreperous patient?"
     "Only  till  three o'clock. Galli and I have  to go to San Miniato, and
Signora Bolla is coming till I can get back."
     "Signora  Bolla!"  the  Gadfly  repeated  in a tone  of  dismay.  "Why,
Martini,  this  will never do! I can't have a  lady bothered  over me and my
ailments. Besides, where is she to sit? She won't like to come in here."
     "Since  when have  you gone in so  fiercely for the proprieties?" asked
Riccardo,  laughing. "My good man, Signora Bolla is head nurse in general to
all  of  us. She has looked after sick  people ever  since she was in  short
frocks, and does it better than  any sister of mercy I  know.  Won't like to
come into your room! Why, you  might  be talking of  the Grassini  woman!  I
needn't leave any  directions if  she's  coming, Martini.  Heart alive, it's
half-past two; I must be off!"
     "Now,  Rivarez,  take  your  physic  before  she  comes,"  said  Galli,
approaching the sofa with a medicine glass.
     "Damn the  physic!" The  Gadfly had  reached  the  irritable  stage  of
convalescence,  and  was inclined to  give  his  devoted nurses a bad  time.
"W-what do you want  to  d-d-dose me with all sorts  of horrors  for now the
pain is gone?"
     "Just because I don't want it to come back. You wouldn't like it if you
collapsed when Signora Bolla is here and she had to give you opium."
     "My g-good sir,  if that pain is going to  come back it will come; it's
not  a t-toothache to be frightened away with your trashy mixtures. They are
about as much use  as a t-toy squirt for a house on fire. However, I suppose
you must have your way."
     He took  the glass  with  his left hand, and the sight of the  terrible
scars recalled Galli to the former subject of conversation.
     "By the way," he asked; "how did you  get so much knocked about? In the
war, was it?"
     "Now, didn't I just tell you it was a case of secret dungeons and----"
     "Yes, that version is for Signora Grassini's benefit. Really, I suppose
it was in the war with Brazil?"
     "Yes, I got a bit hurt there; and then hunting  in the savage districts
and one thing and another."
     "Ah, yes;  on the scientific expedition.  You can fasten  your shirt; I
have quite done. You seem to have had an exciting time of it out there."
     "Well, of course  you can't live in savage countries without  getting a
few adventures once in a way,"  said the Gadfly lightly; "and you can hardly
expect them all to be pleasant."
     "Still, I don't understand how you managed to get so much knocked about
unless in a  bad adventure with  wild beasts--those scars on  your left arm,
for instance."
     "Ah, that was in a puma-hunt. You see, I had fired----"
     There was a knock at the door.
     "Is the room  tidy, Martini? Yes? Then please  open the  door.  This is
really most kind, signora; you must excuse my not getting up."
     "Of course  you  mustn't  get up; I have not come as a caller.  I  am a
little early, Cesare. I thought perhaps you were in a hurry to go."
     "I  can  stop for a quarter  of  an hour. Let me  put your cloak in the
other room. Shall I take the basket, too?"
     "Take  care; those are new-laid eggs. Katie brought  them in from Monte
Oliveto this  morning.  There  are  some  Christmas  roses  for you,  Signor
Rivarez; I know you are fond of flowers."
     She sat  down beside  the table and began clipping  the  stalks of  the
flowers and arranging them in a vase.
     "Well, Rivarez,"  said Galli; "tell us the rest of the puma-hunt story;
you had just begun."
     "Ah, yes! Galli was asking me about life in South America, signora; and
I was telling him how I came to get  my left arm spoiled. It was in Peru. We
had  been wading a river on a puma-hunt, and when I fired  at the beast  the
powder wouldn't go off; it had got  splashed with water. Naturally  the puma
didn't wait for me to rectify that; and this is the result."
     "That must have been a pleasant experience."
     "Oh, not so bad! One must take the  rough  with the  smooth, of course;
but it's a splendid life on the whole. Serpent-catching, for instance----"
     He  rattled on, telling anecdote after anecdote;  now of  the Argentine
war,  now of the Brazilian expedition, now of  hunting feats  and adventures
with savages or wild beasts. Galli,  with  the delight of  a child hearing a
fairy  story, kept interrupting every moment to ask questions. He was of the
impressionable  Neapolitan  temperament  and  loved  everything sensational.
Gemma took  some  knitting  from her basket and listened silently, with busy
fingers and downcast eyes. Martini frowned and fidgeted. The manner in which
the anecdotes  were  told  seemed to  him boastful and  self-conscious; and,
notwithstanding his unwilling admiration for a man who could endure physical
pain  with  the  amazing  fortitude which  he had  seen the week  before, he
genuinely disliked the Gadfly and all his works and ways.
     "It must have  been a glorious life!" sighed Galli with naive  envy. "I
wonder you ever made up your mind to leave Brazil. Other countries must seem
so flat after it!"
     "I  think I was happiest  in Peru and Ecuador,"  said the Gadfly. "That
really is  a  magnificent tract  of country.  Of  course  it  is  very  hot,
especially the coast district of Ecuador, and one has to rough it a bit; but
the scenery is superb beyond imagination."
     "I  believe," said Galli, "the  perfect freedom  of life in a barbarous
country  would  attract me  more  than  any  scenery.  A man  must feel  his
personal, human dignity as he can never feel it in our crowded towns."
     "Yes," the Gadfly answered; "that is----"
     Gemma  raised her eyes from  her knitting and looked at him. He flushed
suddenly scarlet and broke off. There was a little pause.
     "Surely it is not come on again?" asked Galli anxiously.
     "Oh, nothing to  speak of, thanks to your s-s-soothing application that
I b-b-blasphemed against. Are you going already, Martini?"
     "Yes. Come along, Galli; we shall be late."
     Gemma followed the two men out of the room, and presently returned with
an egg beaten up in milk.
     "Take this, please," she  said with mild authority; and sat down  again
to her knitting. The Gadfly obeyed meekly.
     For half  an hour,  neither spoke. Then the Gadfly  said in a very  low
voice:
     "Signora Bolla!"
     She looked up. He was tearing the fringe of the couch-rug, and kept his
eyes lowered.
     "You didn't believe I was speaking the truth just now," he began.
     "I had not the  smallest  doubt that you were  telling falsehoods," she
answered quietly.
     "You were quite right. I was telling falsehoods all the time."
     "Do you mean about the war?"
     "About  everything. I  was not  in  that  war at all; and  as  for  the
expedition, I had a few adventures, of course, and most of those stories are
true, but it was not that  way  I got smashed.  You  have detected me in one
lie, so I may as well confess the lot, I suppose."
     "Does it  not seem to you  rather a waste  of energy  to invent so many
falsehoods?"  she asked.  "I should  have  thought it  was hardly  worth the
trouble."
     "What would  you  have? You  know your  own  English proverb:  'Ask  no
questions and you'll be told no lies.' It's no pleasure to me to fool people
that way, but I  must answer them somehow when they ask what made a  cripple
of me; and I may as well invent something pretty while I'm about it. You saw
how pleased Galli was."
     "Do you prefer pleasing Galli to speaking the truth?"
     "The truth!"  He looked  up  with  the torn  fringe in his  hand.  "You
wouldn't have me tell those people the truth? I'd cut my  tongue out first!"
Then with an awkward, shy abruptness: