azza, we sat to gossip, to drink our iced bock, and to smoke
our long Toscano cigars, which, to the resident in Italy, become so
palatable.

I knew that Charlie had had his romance, one of the strangest of all
that I had known. Crushed, hipped, bankrupt, almost penniless, he had
never mentioned it to me. It was his own private affair, and I, as his
friend, never referred to so painful a subject.

It is strange how one takes to some men. All my friends looked askance
when I walked about Florence with Charlie Whitaker. Some insinuated that
his past was a very black one, and others openly declared that he never
dare face the Consul, or go back to England, because a warrant was out
for him. Truly he was under a cloud, poor fellow, and I often felt sorry
for all the open snubs he received.

As we sat that night smoking outside on the pavement, with the merry,
careless populace idling to and fro, he seemed a trifle more pensive
than usual, and I inquired the reason.

"Nothing, Ewart," he declared, with a faint smile; "nothing very
particular. Thoughts--only thoughts of----"

"Of what?"

"Of town--of our dear old London that I suppose I shall never see
again," and his mouth hardened. "Do you remember Pall Mall, the Park,
the Devonshire--and Vivi?"

I nodded, and pulled at my cheap cigar.

Vivi! Did I remember her? Why, I had often driven the Honourable
Victoria Violet Finlay, the girl--for she was only eighteen--who had
once flirted with me when I was in her father's service. Why, I
wondered, did he mention her? Could he know the truth? Could he know the
galling bitterness of my own heart? I think not. Through the many months
I had been the Count's chauffeur I had held my secret, though my heart
was full of bitterness.

Mention of her name recalled, under that white Italian moonlight, a
vision of her--the tall, slim, graceful girlish figure, the oval
delicate face with clear blue eyes, and the wealth of red-gold hair
beneath her motor-cap. She rose before me with that sad, bitter smile of
farewell that she had given me when, as she was seated beside me in the
car, on our way from Guildford to London, I bent over her small white
hand for the last time.

Whew! Why are we men given memories? Half one's life seems to be made up
of vain regrets. Since that day I had, it was true, never ceased to
think of her, yet I had lived a lonely, melancholy life, even though it
were fraught with such constant excitement.

"You k