print ... you don't so much as deign to argue the question, but get upon
your pedestal and ask me why I tell lies. You think one thing and I think
another; of course, you must know best, but I presume I may be allowed to
hold my misguided and ill-informed opinion without being accused blankly
of fraud. Upon my word, Peter ... it's time you took to some other line
of life, I think."

His high, unsteady voice trailed away into silence. Peter, out of all the
dim beauty of the night, saw only the pale, disturbed, frowning face, the
quivering hand that held the lean cigar. All the strangeness and the
mystery of the mysterious world were here concentrated. Numbly and dully
he heard the soft, rhythmic splashing of the dipping oar, the turning
cry of "Premié!" Then, sharper, "Sciar, Signori, sciar!" as they nearly
jostled another gondola, swinging round sharply into a moonless lane of
ancient palaces.

Peter presently said, "But ..." and there stopped. What could he say,
beyond "but?"

Hilary answered him sharply, "Well?" and then, after another pause,
Peter pulled himself together, gave up trying to thread the maze of his
perplexity, and said soberly, "I beg your pardon, Hilary. I'm an ass."

Hilary let out his breath sharply, and resumed his cigar.

"It's possible, of course," he said, more quietly, "that you may be right
and I wrong about the things. That's another question altogether. I may
be a fool: I only resent being called a knave. _Really_, you know!"

"I never meant that," Peter hopelessly began to explain. And, indeed, now