“Yes.  You see, we are on our way south.  Mr. Laurence merely wanted a glance at Aix en route, and the Contessa was kind enough to invite him to her house.  It was really nice of her, as he is such a boy.”

“You think so?  Yes—­perhaps.  Well, I consent on these terms to forget.  You may tell your principal what I have said.”

“I will,” I returned.  “He will be guided by me, and forget also; though I assure you, like most of his countrymen, he is a fire-eater—­a fire-eater.”

This time it was Paolo who volunteered to shake hands.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXIII

There is No Such Girl

    “She has forgotten my kisses, and I—­have forgotten her
    name.”—­A.C.  SWINBURNE.

I went early in the morning to the villa with the intention of culling the Boy like a wayside flower, and carrying him off to the lake.  The hour was unearthly for a morning call, and the windows were still asleep, but I was spared the necessity of raising the echoes with an untimely peal of the bell.  Under the red umbrella lounged the Boy, reading with the appearance, at least, of nonchalance.  For all he could tell, I might have failed in my mission, and have come to announce the hour fixed for deadly combat; but he was not even pale.  Indeed, I had never seen him rosier, or brighter-eyed.

I sat down on the rustic seat beside him, and with a glance at the veiled windows of the villa, I remarked in a low voice, “It’s all right.”

“That goes without saying.”

“Why?”

“Because you promised.”

“Thanks for the compliment.  Have you had your cafe au lait?”

“No.  I got up early, and thought of walking round to your hotel to see you, but decided I wouldn’t.”

“I half expected you.”

“I didn’t want to seem too—­importunate.  I hoped you’d come here.”

“Like a promising child, I’ve justified your hopes.  Let’s walk down to the Grand Port, to a garden restaurant I remember; and over our coffee, I’ll tell you the story of my diplomatic coup.  Meanwhile, we’ll discuss Shakespeare and the musical glasses.”

“Anything but the Contessa,” said the Boy, springing up, and cramming his panama over his curls.  “I shall breathe more freely on the other side of the gate, and I shan’t consider myself out of the scrape until I’m out of her house for good.”

In the street he drew fuller breaths, and with each yard of distance that we put between ourselves and the villa his eyes grew brighter and his step more airy.

I unfolded my plan for the morning, which was to take a trip up the lake to the Abbey of Hautecombe, and return in time for dejeuner, since, as a guest of the Contessa, the Boy could scarcely absent himself all day without conspicuous rudeness.  “You’ll have to be tied to the lady’s apron strings, if she wants you knotted there, for the afternoon,” said I.  “But I’m going to have a telegram from my friends to meet them on the top of Mont Revard to-morrow, so if you want an excuse——­”