Buttons would go with her. Had she a carriage? No, she walked. Then he
would walk with her.

Buttons tried hard to get a carriage, but all were engaged. But a walk
would not be unpleasant in such company. The Domino did not complain.
She was vivacious, brilliant, delightful, bewitching. Buttons had been
trying all evening to find out who she was. In vain.

"Who in the world is she? I must find out, so that I may see her
again." This was his one thought.

They approached the Strada Nuova.

"She is not one of the nobility at any rate, or she would not live
here."

They turned up a familiar street.

"How exceedingly jolly! She can't live far away from my lodgings."

They entered the Strada di San Bartolomeo.

"Hanged if she don't live on the same street!"

A strange thought occurred. It was soon confirmed. They stopped in
front of Buttons's own lodgings. A light gleamed over the door.
Another flashed into the soul of Buttons. That face, dimpled, smiling,
bewitching; flashing, sparking eyes; little mouth with its rosy lips!

"_Delores_!"

"Blessed Saints and Holy Virgin! Is it possible that you never
suspected?"

"Never. How could I when I thought you were dressed like a dragoon?"

"And you never passed so happy an evening; and never had so
fascinating and charming a partner; and you never heard such a voice
of music as mine; and you can never forget me through all life; and
you never can hope to find any one equal to me!" said Dolores, in her
usual laughing volubility.

"Never!" cried Buttons.

"Oh dear! I think you must love me very much."

And a merry peal of laughter rang up the stairs as Dolores, evading
Buttons's arm, which that young man had tried to pass about her
waist, dashed away into the darkness and out of sight.

CHAPTER VIII.

ADVENTURES AND MISADVENTURES.--A WET GROTTO AND A BOILING LAKE.--THE
TWO FAIR SPANIARDS, AND THE DONKEY RIDE.

The Grotto of Posilippo is a most remarkable place, and, in the
opinion of every intelligent traveller, is more astonishing than even
the Hoosac Tunnel, which nobody will deny except the benighted
Bostonian.

The city of Pozzuoli is celebrated for two things; first, because St.
Paul once landed there, and no doubt hurried away as fast as he could;
and, secondly, on account of the immense number of beggars that throng
around the unhappy one who enters its streets.

The Dodge Club contributed liberally. The Doctor gave a cork-screw;
the Sen