"He looked just as he does now, when I was seventeen," observed Guido.
"The creature paints his face. I am sure of it."
"No. I have seen him drenched in a shower, when he had no umbrella. The rain ran down his cheeks, but the colour did not change."
"It is all the more disgusting," retorted Lamberti, illogically, but with strong emphasis.
Guido rose from his seat rather wearily. As he stood up, he was much taller than his friend, who had seemed the larger man while both were seated.
"I am glad that we have talked this over," he said. "Not that talking can help matters, of course. It never does. But I wanted you to know just how things stand, in case anything should happen to me."
Lamberti turned rather sharply.
"In case what should happen to you?" he asked, his eyes hardening.
"I am very tired of it all," Guido answered, "I have nothing to live for, and I am being driven straight to disgrace and ruin without any fault of my own. I daresay that some day I may—well, you know what I mean."
"What?"