villa--always for _dejeuner_ and _diner_, till the other
friends arrived, was it not? And I would not try to take Signor Boy
(this was the name she had built on mine for him) away from her and
the dear Baronessa?

I reassured her on this last point, promised everything she asked, and
then got away as quickly as I could, lest I should disgrace myself by
letting escape the wild laughter which I caged with difficulty. It was
arranged that we should all meet that evening, after dinner, at the
Villa des Fleurs, for one of those _fetes de nuit_ which Gaeta loved;
and then I turned my back upon the group under the red umbrella,
without a glance for the Boy.

I tramped into the town once more, with Joseph close behind, leading
his own Finois and Innocentina's Fanny, and found my way to the hotel,
in its large shady garden, where coloured lamps were already beginning
to glow in the twilight. Soon I had all the resources of civilisation
at my command: a white-and-gold panelled suite, with a bath as big as
a boudoir, and hot water enough to make of me a better man (I hoped)
than Paolo di Nivoli.

Later I dined on the wide balcony, with flower-fragrance blowing
towards me from the mysterious blue dusk of the garden. I ought, I
said to myself, to be well-contented, for the dinner was excellent,
and the surroundings a picture in aquarelles. Still, I had a vague
sense of something very wrong, such as a well brought up motor car
must feel when it has a screw loose, and can't explain to the
chauffeur. What was it? The Boy's absence? Nonsense; he didn't want
me, rather the contrary. Why should I want him? A few weeks ago I had
not known that he existed. I drank a pint of dry champagne, iced
almost to freezing point; but instead of hardening my heart against
the ex-Brat, to my annoyance the sparkling liquid gradually but surely
produced the opposite effect.

The fragrance of the flowers, the soft wind among the chestnut trees
in the garden, the beauty of the night, all reproached me for my
conduct to the young creature I had abandoned. What use was it to
remind myself that I had merely taken a leaf out of his book, that I
had even played into his hands, as he seemed to desire? The answer
would come that he was a boy, and I a man. No matter what he had done,
I ought not to have left him to flirt with Gaeta under the jealous
eyes of the Italian, who was "a whirlwind, and caught a woman off her
feet."

It was too late now to think of