“In Spain I could not greet a lady with a simple good-evening,” said the count.  “I should say, ’Permit the humblest of your servants to lay himself at your feet,’ or something like that.”

“Why do you not say it to us?” asked a bright-eyed Canadian girl.

“Well, it might be a little awkward if you should happen to take it literally.  In Spain it is the merest commonplace.”

“If such exaggerated phrases are frittered into commonplaces, and the most impassioned words grow meaningless, what can a Spanish gentleman find to say when his heart is really touched?” I inquired.

“I fancy we should find some very simple words to say it in,” said the boy, flushing like a girl.  “But I do not know—­I have never learned.”

“Talk some more,” commanded the little princess.

“If a pretty young lady is walking in our streets a mantle is often flung suddenly in her way, and proud and happy is its owner if she deigns to set her dainty foot upon it.”

“What do they do that for?  Because the streets are so muddy?” inquired an obtuse young woman.  But nobody volunteered to enlighten her.

“Cannot we go to Spain?” asked Miss St. Clair.  “I should like to see a modern Sir Walter Raleigh.”

“If the senorita should appear in our streets they would be strewn with mantles,” said the young count gallantly.

“Would you throw down yours for me to step upon?”

“Surely, senorita.”

“I’ll come, then.  It must be of velvet, mind.”

“Yes, studded with jewels.”

I loved the beautiful youth.  His presence was like a poem in my life, and if it ever occurred to me that the familiar intercourse of the young people might not be altogether prudent, I dismissed it with the thought, He is only a boy.

There was to be an illumination of the Coliseum.  We were going of course, and Count Alvala begged that I would honor him by making use of his carriage on this occasion.  “Thank you, but I have already spoken to Piero to come for us.”

“Oh, but we can send him away.  You will find my carriage more comfortable, and it will be in every way pleasanter,” he urged beseechingly; but my negative was peremptory.

Eight o’clock came.  Miss St. Clair and I descended to the court of the hotel, but where was Piero?  “It is singular.  He was never late before, but I am confident that he will be here presently.  We have only to wait a little.”

The minutes went by, and they were long minutes.  It was awkward waiting in so public a place.  The count had joined us with his friend, an Italian marquis some thirty years of age, with whom we had a slight acquaintance.  The count’s handsome equipage was drawn up near us.  There was no Piero.

“I really think you had better accept my young friend’s carriage.  It would be a pity to miss so grand a spectacle,” said the marquis.