It appears that he was an unsuccessful admirer of the lady in question, and he admits that, under the influence of drink, he broke into her rooms, and there made a determined attempt at suicide. He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. “Since last night. “Buon Primomaggio. Drink this!” He poured out a glass of wine with a firm hand, and held it to her lips. ‘Dead then, is he?’ ‘If I could say that he is dead, it would give me very much satisfaction. It has been a big night.
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