“Hold hard, old boy!” chuckled Beverly, to whom I communicated this sentiment.  “How do you know the stink of one generation does not become the perfume of the next?” Beverly, when he troubled to put a thing at all (which was seldom—­for he kept his quite good brains well-nigh perpetually turned out to grass—­or rather to grass widows) always put it well, and with a bracing vocabulary.  “Hullo!” he now exclaimed, and walked out into the middle of the roadway, where he picked up a parasol.  “Kitty will be in a jolly old stew.  None of its expensive bones broken however.”  And then he hailed me by a name of our youth.  “What are you doing down here, you old sourbelly?”

“Watching you sun yourself on the fat cushions of the yellow rich.”

“Oh, shucks, old man, they’re not so yellow!”

“Charley strikes me as yellower than his own gold.”

“Charley’s not a bad little sort.  Of course, he needs coaching a bit here and there—­just now, for instance, when he didn’t see that that girl wouldn’t think of riding in the machine that had just killed her dog.  By Jove, give that girl a year in civilization and she’d do!  Who was the young fire-eater?”

“Fire-eater!  He’s a lot more decent than you or I.”

“But that’s saying so little, dear boy!”

“Seriously, Beverly.”

“Oh, hang it with your ‘seriously’!  Well, then, seriously, melodrama was the correct ticket and all that in 1840, but we’ve outgrown it; it’s devilish demode to chuck things in people’s faces.

“I’m not sorry John Mayrant did it!” I brought out his name with due emphasis.

“All the same,” Beverly was beginning, when the automobile returned rapidly upon us, and, guessing the cause of this, he waved the parasol.  Charley descended to get it—­an unnecessary act, prompted, I suppose, by the sudden relief of finding that it was not lost.

He made his thanks marked.  “It is my sister’s,” he concluded, to me, by way of explanation, in his slightly foreign accent.  “It is not much, but it has got some stones and things in the handle.”

We were favored with a bow from the veiled Hortense, shrill thanks from Kitty, and the car, turning, again left us in a moment.

“You’ve got a Frenchman along,” I said.

“Little Gazza,” Beverly returned.  “Italian; though from his morals you’d never guess he wasn’t Parisian.  Great people in Rome.  Hereditary right to do something in the presence of the Pope—­or not to do it, I forget which.  Not a bit of a bad little sort, Gazza.  He has just sold a lot of old furniture—­Renaissance—­Lorenzo du Borgia—­that sort of jolly old truck—­to Bohm, you know.”

I didn’t know.