nance, that bright
morning.

I was not to sail in the "Princess Irene" with those dear friends. Ah
no! I had told them that I must go back to Paris to say good-bye to my
little nieces and sail from Boulogne--and I am sure they believed that
was my reason. I had even arranged to go away upon a train which would
make it not possible for me to drive to the dock with them. I did not
wish to see the boat carry them away from me.

And so the farewells were said in the street in all that crowd. Poor Jr.
and I were waiting at the door when the carriage galloped up. How the
crowd rushed to see that lady whom it bore to us, blushing and laughing!
Clouds of gold-dust came before my eyes again; she wore once more that
ineffable grey pongee!

Servants ran forward with the effects of Poor Jr. and we both sprang
toward the carriage.

A flower-girl was offering a great basket of loose violets. Poor Jr.
seized it and threw them like a blue rain over the two ladies.

"Bravo! Bravo!"

A hundred bouquets showered into the carriage, and my friend's silver
went out in another shower to meet them.

"Addio, la bella Napoli!" came from the singers and the violins, but I
cried to them for "La Luna Nova."

"Good-bye--for a little while--good-bye!"

I knew how well my friend liked me, because he shook my hand with his
head turned away. Then the grey glove of the beautiful lady touched my
shoulder--the lightest touch in all the world--as I stood close to the
carriage while Poor Jr. climbed in.

"Good-bye. Thank you--and God bless you!" she said, in a low voice. And
I knew for what she thanked me.

The driver cracked his whip like an honest Neapolitan. The horses sprang
forward. "Addio, addio!"

I sang with the musicians, waving and waving and waving my handkerchief
to the departing carriage.

Now I saw my friend lean over and take the beautiful lady by the hand,
and together they stood up in the carriage and waved their handkerchiefs
to me. Then, but not because they had passed out of sight, I could see
them not any longer.

They were so good--that kind Poor Jr. and the beautiful lady; they
seemed like dear children--as if they had been my own dear children.

THE END

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Beautiful Lady, by Booth Tarkington

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