neteen. 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.

"I hope it will be all right," I went on, rather heavily. "Look here,
that pretty little fairy would like to know you. She's the Contessa di
Ravello. Come along and be introduced."

The Boy flung up his head, his blue eyes flashing. "Why am I to be
dragged at her chariot wheels?" he demanded.

"Oh, rot, my child. Don't put on airs. Men twice your age would snatch
at such a chance."

"I can't tell what I may be capable of when I'm twice my age. It