Nina raised her head from his breast with an air of petulant weariness.

“Again!” she murmured, reproachfully, “you are going to be angry again!”

He kissed her.

“Not I, sweet one!  I will be as gentle as you wish, so long as you love me and only me.  Come—­this avenue is damp and chilly for you—­ shall we go in?”

My wife—­nay, I should say our wife, as we had both shared her impartial favors—­assented.  With arms interlaced and walking slowly, they began to retrace their steps toward the house.  Once they paused.

“Do you hear the nightingales?” asked Guido.

Hear them!  Who could not hear them?  A shower of melody rained from the trees on every side—­the pure, sweet, passionate tones pierced the ear like the repeated chime of little golden bells—­the beautiful, the tender, the God-inspired birds sung their love-stories simply and with perfect rapture—­love-stories untainted by hypocrisy—­unsullied by crime—­different, ah! so very different from the love-stones of selfish humanity!  The exquisite poetic idyl of a bird’s life and love—­is it not a thing to put us inferior creatures to shame—­for are we ever as true to our vows as the lark to his mate?—­are we as sincere in our thanksgivings for the sunlight as the merry robin who sings as blithely in the winter snow as in the flower-filled mornings of spring?  Nay—­not we!  Our existence is but one long impotent protest against God, combined with an insatiate desire to get the better of one another in the struggle for base coin!

Nina listened—­and shivered, drawing her light scarf more closely about her shoulders.

“I hate them” she said, pettishly; “their noise is enough to pierce one’s ears.  And he used to be so fond of them! he used to sing—­what was it?

  ’Ti salute, Rosignuolo,
   Nel tuo duolo, il saluto! 
   Sei l’amante delta rosa
   Che morendo si fa sposa!’”

Her rich voice rippled out on the air, rivaling the songs of the nightingales themselves.  She broke off with a little laugh—­

“Poor Fabio! there was always a false note somewhere when he sung.  Come, Guido!”

And they paced on quietly, as though their consciences were clean—­ as though no just retribution dogged their steps—­as though no shadow of a terrible vengeance loomed in the heaven of their pilfered happiness!  I watched them steadily as they disappeared in the distance—­I stretched my head eagerly out from between the dark boughs and gazed after their retreating figures till the last glimmer of my wife’s white robe had vanished behind the thick foliage.  They were gone—­they would return no more that night.