George made no reply, and, after a moment’s silence, the marquis resumed in a graver tone:
“My dear friend, being forty years old—that is, nearly fifteen years older than you—I think I may be allowed to say that, if in a choice between infamy and folly, folly is preferable, it would be well to reflect that the least follies are the shortest, and the worst of all are those which are irreparable.”
“We are forgetting our rôles, Adelardi. I have no avowals or revelations to make you. You undertook not to tell me what I ought to do, but to predict what I shall do.”
“Well, here is my horoscope, dictated, I acknowledge, as much by what I desire as by my penetration. You will escape from this folly, and keep the promise you have made.”
George’s brow grew dark. “A promise my mother doubtless commissioned you to remind me of?”
“No; I speak to you as a friend, and quite spontaneously. If it were at your mother’s request, I should certainly have no hesitation about acknowledging it.”
“She certainly reminds me often enough of it herself. This supposed promise has long been a settled fact with her.”
“Supposed?”
“Yes, supposed, for it is a subject on which I never said anything positive.”