“Are you sure?”

“As sure as that I’m starving for my breakfast.  If the young lady—­she’s married now, and I wish her all happiness—­should appear before me at the end of this street, and sob out a confession of repentance for the past, it wouldn’t in the least affect my appetite.  I should tell her not to mind, and hurry on to join you at the corner.”

“You would have forgotten by that time that there was a Me.”

“I can’t think of anyone or anything at the moment which would make me forget that,” said I.

“The Contessa?”

“Not she, nor any other pretty doll.”

“An earthquake, then?”

“Nor an earthquake:  for I should probably occupy myself in trying to save your life.  To tell the honest truth, Little Pal, you’ve become a confirmed habit with me, and I confess that the thought of finishing this tramp without you gave me a distinct shock, when you flung it at my head.  If you were open to the idea of adoption, I think I should have to adopt you, you know:  for, now that I’ve got used to seeing you about, it seems to me that, as certain advertisements say of the articles they recommend, no home would be complete without you.  But there’s your sister; she would object to annexation.”

The Boy was busily kicking fallen leaves as he walked.  “You might ask her—­if you should ever see each other.”

“Make her meet you at Monte Carlo, and introduce us there.  I’ll tell you what I’ll do.  I’ll give a dinner at the Hotel de Paris—­the night after we arrive.  It shall be in your hands, and of course your sister’s, who ought to know your pal.  You must try hard to get her to come.  Is it a bargain?”

“I can’t answer for her.”

“But I only ask you to try your hardest.  Come now, when I’ve told you about last night, you’ll say I deserve a reward.”

“Yes, I’ll try.”

“But, by Jove, I’d forgotten that your sister is an heiress,” I went on.  “I’ve vowed not to fall in love with a girl who has a lot of money.”

“I told you that you wouldn’t fall in love with her.”

“Is she like you?”

“A good many people think so.  That’s why I’m so sure she wouldn’t be the sort of girl you’d care for—­you, a man who admires the English rose type or—­a Contessa.”

“The Contessa was your affair.  For me, a woman of her type could never be dangerous.  Whereas, a girl like your sister——­”

“Still harping on my sister!”

“I often think of her as ‘The Princess.’  It’s a pretty name.  I fancy it suits her.  Once or twice, since we’ve been chums, you have had letters, I know.  I hope you’ve better news of her?”

“She’s cured in body and mind.  It is—­rather a queer coincidence, perhaps, for like you, she has found out, so she tells me—­that she wasn’t really in love with—­the man.  She was only in love with love.”

“I’m heartily glad.  If she’s as true and brave a little soul, as glorious a pal as you are, she will one day make some fellow the happiest man alive.”