“I believe you,” I answered, composedly.  I had no wish to argue with him; I only sought to read his shallow soul through and through that I might be convinced of his utter worthlessness.  “According to modern civilization there is really no special need to be virtuous unless it suits us.  The only thing necessary for pleasant living is to avoid public scandal.”

“Just so!” agreed Ferrari; “and that can always be easily managed.  Take a woman’s reputation—­nothing is so easily lost, we all know, before she is actually married; but marry her well, and she is free.  She can have a dozen lovers if she likes, and if she is a good manager her husband need never be the wiser.  He has his amours, of course—­why should she not have hers also?  Only some women are clumsy, they are over-sensitive and betray themselves too easily; then the injured husband (carefully concealing his little peccadilloes) finds everything out and there is a devil of a row—­a moral row, which is the worst kind of row.  But a really clever woman can always steer clear of slander if she likes.”

Contemptible ruffian!  I thought, glancing at his handsome face and figure with scarcely veiled contempt.  With all his advantages of education and his well-bred air he was yet ruffian to the core—­as low in nature, if not lower, than the half-savage tramp for whom no social law has ever existed or ever will exist.  But I merely observed: 

“It is easy to see that you have a thorough knowledge of the world and its ways.  I admire your perception!  From your remarks I judge that you have no sympathy with marital wrongs?”

“Not the least,” he replied, dryly; “they are too common and too ludicrous.  The ‘wronged husband,’ as he considers himself in such cases, always cuts such an absurd figure.”

“Always?” I inquired, with apparent curiosity.

“Well, generally speaking, he does.  How can he remedy the matter?  He can only challenge his wife’s lover.  A duel is fought in which neither of the opponents are killed, they wound each other slightly, embrace, weep, have coffee together, and for the future consent to share the lady’s affections amicably.”

“Veramente!” I exclaimed, with a forced laugh, inwardly cursing his detestable flippancy; “that is the fashionable mode of taking vengeance?”

“Absolutely the one respectable way of doing it,” he replied; “it is only the canaille who draw heart’s blood in earnest.”

Only the canaille!  I looked at him fixedly.  His smiling eyes met mine with a frank and fearless candor.  Evidently he was not ashamed of his opinions, he rather gloried in them.  As he stood there with the warm sunlight playing upon his features he seemed the very type of youthful and splendid manhood; an Apollo in exterior—­in mind a Silenus.  My soul sickened at the sight of him.  I felt that the sooner this strong treacherous life was crushed the better; there would be one traitor less in the world at any rate.  The thought of my dread but just purpose passed over me like the breath of a bitter wind—­a tremor shook my nerves.  My face must have betrayed some sign of my inward emotion, for Ferrari exclaimed: