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."