coolness. He entered it, walking slowly on till the sound of the orchestra became distinctly deadened. Then he walked back and turned about once more. He did this several times before he noticed that there was somebody on one of the benches.

The spot being midway between two lamp-posts the light was faint.

The man lolled back in the corner of the seat, his legs stretched out, his arms folded and his head drooping on his breast. He never stirred, as though he had fallen asleep there, but when the Count passed by again he had changed his attitude. He sat leaning forward. His elbows were propped on his knees, and his hands were rolling a cigarette. He never looked up from that occupation.

The Count continued his stroll away from the band. He returned slowly, he said. I can imagine him enjoying to the full, but with his usual tranquillity, the balminess of this southern night and the sounds of music softened delightfully by the distance.

Presently, he approached for the third time the man on the garden seat, still leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. It was a dejected pose. In the semi-obscurity of the alley his high shirt collar and his cuffs made small patches of vivid whiteness. The Count said that he just noticed him in a casual way getting up brusquely as if to walk away, but almost before he was aware of it the man stood before him asking in a low, gentle tone whether the signor would have the kindness to oblige him with a light.

The Count answered this request by a polite ‘Certainly,’ and dropped his hands with the intention of exploring both pockets of his trousers for the matches.

‘I dropped my hands,’ he said, ‘but I never put them in my pockets. I felt a pressure there—’

He put the tip of his finger on a spot close under his breastbone, the very spot of the human body where a Japanese gentleman begins the operation of the Hara-kiri, which is a form of suicide following upon dishonour, upon an intolerable outrage to the delicacy of one’s feelings.

‘I glance down,’ he continued in an awe-struck voice, ‘and what do I see? A knife! A long knife—’

‘You don’t mean to say,’ I exclaimed amazed, ‘that you were attacked like this in the Villa at half-past ten o’clock, within a stone’s throw of fifteen hundred people!’

He nodded several times, staring at me with all his might.

‘The clarionet,’ he declared solemnly, ‘was finishing his solo, and I assure you I heard every note. Then the band crashed fortissimo, and that creature rolled its eyes and gnashed its teeth hissing at me with the greatest ferocity, “Be silent! No noise or—” ’

I could not get over my astonishment.

‘What sort of knife was it?’ I asked stupidly.

‘A long blade. A stiletto—perhaps a kitchen knife. A long narrow blade. It gleamed. And his eyes gleamed. His white teeth, too. I could see them. He was very ferocious. I thought to myself: “If I hit him he will kill me.” How could I fight with him? He had the knife, and I had nothing. I am nearly seventy, and this is a young man. I seemed even to recognise him. The moody young man of the café. The young man I met in the crowd. But I could not tell. There are so many like him in this country.’

The distress of that moment was reflected in his face. I should think that physically he must have been paralysed by surprise. His thoughts, however, remained extremely active. They ranged over every alarming possibility. The idea of setting up a vigorous shouting occurred to him too. But he did nothing of the kind, and the reason why he refrained gave me a good opinion of his mental alertness. He reflected that nothing prevented the other from shouting, too.