Soon I caught sight of the slim, youthful figure, in its rather fantastic evening dress, the becoming dinner-jacket, the Eton collar, the loosely tied bow at the throat, and the full, black knickerbocker trousers, like those worn in the days of Henri Quatre.  As I watched it moving through the crowd, and finally subsiding in a seat under an isolated tree, I saw the boyish form joined by a tall and manly one.  Paolo di Nivoli had followed his young rival, and presently came to a stand close to the Boy’s chair.  He folded his arms, and looked down into the eyes which were upturned in answer to some word.

We could not see the expression of the two faces.  We saw only that the man and the boy were talking, spasmodically at first, then continuously.

“I do hope they’re not quarrelling,” said Gaeta, in the seventh heaven of delight.

“Of course not,” I replied, annoyed at her frivolity.  “They are too sensible.”

“Let us make some excuse, and go over to them,” she pleaded.  “I am tired of sitting still.”

There was nothing for it but to obey her whim.  I took her across the grassy space which divided us from the two under the tree, and she began to chatter about the fireworks.  What did Signor Boy think of them?  Was not Aix a charming place?

But abruptly, in the midst of her babble, Paolo di Nivoli swept her away from the Boy and me, in his best “whirlwind” manner, which doubtless thrilled her with mingled terror and delight.

“Nice night, isn’t it?” I remarked brilliantly.

“Yes,” said the Boy.

“Did the Contessa give you a good dinner?”

“No—­yes—­that is, I didn’t notice.”

“Perhaps that was natural.”

The Boy did not answer, but I heard him swallow hard.  He was on his feet now, having risen at Gaeta’s coming, and he stood kicking the grass with the point of his small patent-leather toe.  Then, suddenly, he looked up straight into my face, with big dilated eyes.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, when still he did not speak.

“Oh, Man, I’m in the most awful scrape.”

“What’s up?”

“I should be thankful to tell you about it, and get your advice, if—­you were like you used to be.”

“It’s you who have changed, not I.”

“No, it’s you.”

“Don’t let’s dispute about it.  Tell me what’s the trouble.  Has that bounder been cheeking you?”

“Worse than that.  He said things that made me angry, and—­then I checked him.”

“Just now—­under this tree?”

“It began at dinner, a little.  But the particular thing I’m speaking of happened here.  I couldn’t stand it, you know.”

“What did he say?”

“He asked me how old I was, at first—­in such a tone!  I answered that I was old enough to know my way about, I hoped.  He said he should have thought not, as I travelled with my nurse.  Then he wanted to know what was in Souris’ pack, whether I carried condensed milk for my nursing-bottle.  It was all I could do to keep from boxing his ears, before everyone, but I kept still, and laughed a little; presently I answered in a drawling sort of way, saying I needn’t tell him that what Souris carried was no affair of his, because when I came to think of it, after all it was quite natural that a great donkey should be interested in a small one.”