We were all to stay at Annecy for a night and a day, the Contessa having announced that she and her friends would stop too; then Gaeta and the others were to go on to Aix-les-Bains by rail, and the Boy and I were to follow on foot, attended by our satellites.  Later, we were to spend a few days at the Contessa’s villa and get upon our way again, journeying south.  But it did not seem to me that my little Pal and I would ever be as we had been before, even though we walked from Aix-les-Bains all the way down to the Riviera shoulder to shoulder.  I had the will to be the same, but he was different now; and though we left Gaeta in the flesh at her villa, entertaining guests, Gaeta in the spirit would still flit between us as we went.  The Boy would be thinking of her; I should know that he was thinking of her, and—­there would be an end of our confidences.

The way, though kaleidoscopic with changing beauties, seemed long to Annecy.  By the time that we arrived, after two days’ going, the Contessa had eyes or dimples or laughter for no one but the Boy.  Sometimes he was seized with sudden moods of rebellion against his new slavery, and was almost rude to her, saying things which she would not have forgiven readily from another, but the child-woman appeared to find a keen delight in forgiving him.  Seeing the preference bestowed upon the young American, Paolo’s brother and sister were inclined to make common cause with me.

In the garden of the old-fashioned hotel at Annecy where we all took up our headquarters, they came and encamped beside me, at a table near which I sat alone, smoking, after our first dinner in the place.  A moment later Gaeta passed with the Boy, pacing slowly under the interlacing branches of the trees.

“I believe that youth to be a fortune-hunter!” exclaimed the thin, dark Baron.

“You’re wrong there,” said I, “he’s very rich.”

“At all events, it is ridiculous, this flirtation,” exclaimed the plump Baronessa.  “He is a mere child.  Gaeta is making a fool of herself.  You are her friend.  You should see this and put a stop to the affair in some way.”

“As to that, many women marry men younger than themselves,” I replied, willing to tease the lady, though I could have laughed aloud at the bare idea of marriage for the Boy.  “Still,” I went on more consolingly, “I hardly think it will come to anything serious between them.”

“Ah, if you say that, you little know Gaeta,” protested Gaeta’s friend.  “She is infatuated—­infatuated with this youth of seventeen or eighteen, whom she insists, to justify her foolishness, is a year older than he can possibly be.  Something must be done, and soon, or she is capable of proposing to him, if he pretend to hang back.”

“Something will be done, my dear; do not be unnecessarily excited,” said the Baron.  “I fear we have not the full sympathy of Lord Lane.”

“If you mean, will I do anything to keep the two apart, I confess you haven’t,” I answered.  “The Contessa di Ravello is her own mistress, and I should say if she wanted the moon, it would be bad for anyone who tried to keep her from getting it.”