WHEN Ferrers returned that day from his customary ride, he was surprised to see the lobbies and hall of the apartment which he occupied in common with Maltravers, littered with bags and /malles/, boxes and books, and Ernest's Swiss valet directing porters and waiters in a mosaic of French, English, and Italian. "Well!" said Lumley, "and what is all this?" "Il signore va partir, sare, ah! mon Dieu!--/tout/ of a sudden." "O-h! and where is he now!" "In his room, sare." Over the chaos strode Ferrers, and opening the door of his friend's dressing-room without ceremony, he saw Maltravers buried in a fauteuil, with his hands drooping on his knees, his head bent over his breast, and his whole attitude expressive of dejection and exhaustion. "What is the matter, my dear Ernest? You have not killed a man in a duel?" "No." "What then? Why are you going away, and whither?" "No matter; leave me in peace." "Friendly!" said Ferrers; "very friendly! And what is to become of me--what companion am I to have in this cursed resort of antiquarians and lazzaroni? You have no feeling, Mr. Maltravers!" "Will you come with me, then?" said Maltravers, in vain endeavouring to rouse himself. "But where are you going?" "Anywhere; to Paris--to London." "No; I have arranged my plans for the summer. I am not so rich as some people. I hate change: it is so expensive." "But, my dear fellow--" "Is this fair dealing with me?" continued Lumley, who, for once in his life, was really angry. "If I were an old coat you had worn for five years you could not throw me off with more nonchalance." "Ferrers, forgive me. My honour is concerned. I must leave this place. I trust you will remain my guest here, though in the absence of your host. You know that I have engaged the apartment for the next three months." "Humph!" said Ferrers, "as that is the case I may as well stay here. But why so secret? Have you seduced Madame de Ventadour, or has her wise husband his suspicions? Hein, hein!" Maltravers smothered his disgust at this coarseness; and, perhaps, there is no greater trial of temper than in a friend's gross remarks upon the connection of the heart. "Ferrers," said he, "if you care for me, breathe not a word disrespectful to Madame de Ventadour: she is an angel!" "But why leave Naples?" "Trouble me no more." "Good day, sir," said Ferrers, highly offended, and he stalked out of the chamber; nor did Ernest see him again before his departure. It was late that evening when Maltravers found himself alone in his carriage, pursuing by starlight the ancient and melancholy road to Mola di Gaeta. His solitude was a luxury to Maltravers; he felt an inexpressible sense of relief to be freed from Ferrers. The hard sense, the unpliant, though humorous imperiousness, the animal sensuality of his companion would have been torture to him in his present state of mind.