“Not always,” I said, dryly, as I motioned him to take a seat—­ “there are exceptions—­myself for instance.  Will you have some coffee?”

“Thanks, I have already breakfasted.  Pray do not let me be in your way, my errand is soon done.  The countess wishes me to say—­”

“You saw her last night?” I interrupted him.

He flushed slightly.  “Yes—­that is—­for a few minutes only.  I gave her your message.  She thanks you, and desires me to tell you that she cannot think of receiving the jewels unless you will first honor her by a visit.  She is not at home to ordinary callers in consequence of her recent bereavement—­but to you, so old a friend of her husband’s family, a hearty welcome will be accorded.”

I bowed stiffly.  “I am extremely flattered!” I said, in a somewhat sarcastical tone, “it is seldom I receive so tempting an invitation!  I regret that I cannot accept it—­at least, not at present.  Make my compliments to the lady, and tell her so in whatever sugared form of words you may think best fitted to please her ears.”

He looked surprised and puzzled.

“Do you really mean,” he said, with a tinge of hauteur in his accents, “that you will not visit her—­that you refuse her request?”

I smiled.  “I really mean, my dear Signor Ferrari, that, being always accustomed to have my own way, I can make no exception in favor of ladies, however fascinating they may be.  I have business in Naples—­ it claims my first and best attention.  When it is transacted I may possibly try a few frivolities for a change—­at present I am unfit for the society of the fair sex—­an old battered traveler as you see, brusque, and unaccustomed to polite lying.  But I promise you I will practice suave manners and a court bow for the countess when I can spare time to call upon her.  In the meanwhile I trust to you to make her a suitable and graceful apology for my non-appearance.”

Ferrari’s puzzled and vexed expression gave way to a smile—­finally he laughed aloud.  “Upon my word!” he exclaimed, gayly, “you are really a remarkable man, conte!  You are extremely cynical!  I am almost inclined to believe that you positively hate women.”

“Oh, by no means!  Nothing so strong as hatred,” I said, coolly, as I peeled and divided a fine peach as a finish to my morning’s meal.  “Hatred is a strong passion—­to hate well one must first have loved.  No, no—­I do not find women worth hating—­I am simply indifferent to them.  They seem to me merely one of the burdens imposed on man’s existence—­graceful, neatly packed, light burdens in appearance, but in truth, terribly heavy and soul-crushing.”

“Yet many accept such burdens gayly!” interrupted Ferrari, with a smile.  I glanced at him keenly.

“Men seldom attain the mastery over their own passions,” I replied; “they are in haste to seize every apparent pleasure that comes in their way, Led by a hot animal impulse which they call love, they snatch at a woman’s beauty as a greedy school-boy snatches ripe fruit—­and when possessed, what is it worth?  Here is its emblem”—­ and I held up the stone of the peach I had just eaten—­“the fruit is devoured—­what remains?  A stone with a bitter kernel.”