“You know him, then?”

“We’ve been travelling companions for days, and have got to be tremendous pals.”

“How old is he?” asked the Contessa, a deep glow of interest and curiosity kindling in her warm brown eyes.

“I don’t know.  He has talked freely about himself only once or twice, though we’ve discussed together most other subjects under the sun.”

“How deliciously mysterious.  Mysterious! yes, that’s the word for him.  He has mysterious eyes; a mysterious face.  There is a shadow upon it.  That is part of the fascination, is it not?  I am sure he is fascinating.”

“Extraordinarily so.  I have never met anyone at all like him.”

“He might be a boy Tasso.  But he has suffered; he is not a child any more, though his face is smooth as mine.  He must be eighteen or nineteen?”

“I should give him less, though he has read and thought a tremendous lot for a boy.”

“Men are not judges of age, thank heaven.  Women are.  I will have it that your friend is nineteen.  I should be too silly to take an interest in him, were he less, if it were not motherly; and that wouldn’t be entertaining.  You see, I am already twenty-two.”

“You look eighteen,” I said; and it was true.  Widow as she was, it was not possible to think of the Contessa as a responsible, grown woman.

“I told you that you were no judge of age.  I was married at eighteen, a widow at nineteen. Dio mio! but it all seems a long time ago, already!  Lord Lane, you must introduce to me your friend the boy.”

Here was a dilemma, but I got out of it by telling the truth, which is usually, in the end, the best policy, many wise opinions to the contrary notwithstanding.  “You will laugh,” I said, “but I don’t know his name.”

“Not possible.”

“True, nevertheless, like most things that seem impossible; nor does he know mine, unless he heard you speak it driving up to the hotel.  He was at the door.”

“Men are extraordinary!  But, introduce him.  You can manage somehow.  It’s not his name I care for.  It is those eyes.  I shall invite him to come and see me in Aix.  Please bring him to me now.  The Baron is arranging about our rooms, and there is sure to be a misunderstanding of some sort, as we had engaged for last night and did not come.  The Baronessa?  Oh, never mind; she had better listen to her husband.  She is my friend, and is soon to be my guest, but she has got upon my nerves to-day.”

Thus bidden, I could do no less than walk away down the hall to where the Boy stood with his book, leaning against the baluster.

“I’ve done all I could about the bag,” I said.  “The people in the post-office seemed hopeful that the big reward would do the trick.”

“Thank you.  You are very good,” he returned.  Something in his tone made me look at him closely.  There was a change in him, though for my life I could not have told what it was or why it had come; there was ice in his voice, though I had spent nearly two dusty, unwashed hours in his service, while he refreshed himself at leisure.