The door opened a few inches, and there was the sound of voices in muffled debate in the gallery. The Lady Duessa listened, rose from her chair, appeared restless. The man of physic comprehended the situation, and with that tact that characterised him, declared that he had patronage elsewhere to assuage. The lady did not detain him, but dismissed him with a smile--a smile that on such a face as hers often took the place of words. So Master Aurelius took his departure. Five minutes later Sforza, Gonfaloniere of Gilderoy, occupied the vacant chair in the oriel. There are many ways to fame. By the broad, embattled gate where the Cerberus of War crouches; by the glistening stair of glass where all the beauty of the world gleams as in a thousand mirrors; by the cloaca of diplomacy and cunning, that tunnels under truth and honour. Sforza of Gilderoy was a man who never took his finger off a guinea till he had seen ten dropped into the other palm. He was a narrow-faced, long-whiskered rat, ever nibbling, ever poking his keen snout into prospective prosperity. He had no real reverence for anything under the sun. To speak metaphorically, he would as soon steal the sacrificial wafer from the altar as the cheese from a burgher’s larder. When he lived in earnest, he lived in moral nebulosity, that is to say, he had no light save his own lantern. Publicly, he appeared a sleek, dignified person, quick with his figures, apt at oratory, a man who could quote scripture by the ell and swear by every saint in the calendar. Sforza, Gonfaloniere of Gilderoy, sat and faced Dame Duessa over a little table that held wine and a bowl of roses. His large hands rested on the carved arms of the chair. He had a debonair smirk on his face, a mask of complacency that suffered him to be vigilant in a polite and courteous fashion. "Madame has considered my proposition?" The woman leant back in her chair and worked her full lower lip against her teeth. "I recognise your infallibility, Gonfaloniere." "Only to the level of human foresight, madame." "You have a longer nose than most men." "I take the insinuation as a compliment." He contemplated her awhile in silence. "How am I to know that you are sincere?" he said. "Need you disbelieve me?" "It is my custom to disbelieve in everybody." "Till they have satisfied you?" "Exactly." Duessa looked out of the window, and played with her chatelaine. "You know women?" "I would never lay claim to such an arrogance of cunning." "Nevertheless you are no fool." "I am no fool." "And you imagine my protestations are not sincere, even after what I have suffered?" He smiled at her most cunningly. "You want proof?" "I do not like unsigned documents." She started forward in her chair with a strangely strenuous look on her face. "Fanatic fools have often made some show of fortitude," she said, "by thrusting a hand into the fire, or the like. See now if I am a liar or a coward."