CHAPTER VIII.
"the devil tempted me, and i did eat."
In the Neapolitan palazetto, which was the residence of Victor Vane, the light of the summer morning made its way through half-closed blinds, the odours of orange and myrtle were heavy to oppression on the air, the waters beat a lulling measure below, at the foot of the little pier; it was still, soft, indolently charming, slumberously restful in the noontide hush; yet he himself—commonly so calm, so languid, so supreme an artist in the science of lazy pleasures—had no repose in it or in his own life. He was pacing up and down the chamber that opened on the terrace with a restless impatience, a feverish irritation with all things that were about him. He drank down some claret fresh from the ice; it seemed to have no coolness in it; he twisted some grapes asunder, and they seemed to parch his mouth; he smoked an opium-filled narghilé, and flung the tube away with a curse—the nicotine had
