It was too late now to think of this, for I had refused Gaeta’s invitation to visit at her house, and having done so I could not ask for another, even if I would.  Probably the Boy would know well enough how far to go, and to protect himself from consequences when he had reached the limit.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXI

The Challenge

     “‘Do I indeed lack courage?’ inquired Mr. Archer of himself,
     ’Courage, . . . that does not fail a weasel or a rat—­
      that is a brutish faculty?’”—­R.L.  STEVENSON.

I drank my black coffee and smoked a cigarette.  Then, a glance at my watch told me that it was time to keep the appointment at the Villa des Fleurs, five minutes’ walk from the hotel.  I expected the Contessa’s party to be late, but somewhat to my surprise they had already arrived, and a quick glance showed me that, outwardly at least, the relations of all were still amicable.

“Signor Boy did not wish to come,” said the Contessa to me, “but I made him.  He says that he does not like crowds.  Look at him now; he has wandered far from us already, probably to find some dark corner where he can forget that there are too many people.  But then, it was sweet of him to come at all, since it was only to please me.”

It was true.  The Boy had slipped away from the seats we had taken near the music.  He had gone to avoid me, perhaps, I said to myself bitterly.  I need not have spoiled my dinner with anxiety for his welfare; he seemed to be taking very good care of himself.

“I was horribly worried at dinner,” whispered Gaeta to me, the light of the fireworks playing rosily over her face.  “Those two—­you know of whom I speak—­weren’t a bit nice to each other.  It was Paolo who began it, of course, saying little, hateful things that sounded smooth, but had a second meaning; and Signor Boy is not stupid.  He did not miss the bad intention, oh, not he, and he said other little things back again, much sharper and wittier than Paolo, who was furious, and gnawed his lip.  It was most exciting.”

“Did you try to pour oil on the troubled waters?” I asked.

“I was very pleasant to them both, if that is what you mean, first to one and then to the other.  After dinner, I gave Signor Boy a rose, and Paolo a gardenia.”

“How charming of you,” I commented drily.  “If that didn’t smooth matters, what could?”

The aeronaut was sitting on Gaeta’s left, I on her right, with the Baronessa next me on the other side, and both were straining every nerve to hear our confidences, though pretending to be lost in admiration of the feu d’artifice.

When the Contessa laughed softly, her little dark head not far from my ear, the Italian sprang up, and walked away, unable to endure five minutes of Gaeta’s neglect.  She and I continued our conversation, though our eyes wandered, mine in search of the Boy, hers I fancy in quest of the same object.