end his rights against marauders.

His look, travelling from me to the Boy, and from the Boy to
Innocentina and meek grey Souris, was so eloquent of contempt passing
words, that I should have wanted to knock the sprawling flannelled
figure out of the basket chair, if I had not wanted still more to yell
with laughter.

He, the Boy and I were like dogs from rival kennels eyeing each other
over, and thinking poorly of the other's points. Paolo di Nivoli was
doubtless saying to himself what a splendid fellow he was, and how
well dressed and famous; also how absurd it really would be to fear
one of us dusty, knickerbockered, thick-booted, panama-hatted louts,
in the tournament of love. The donkey, too, with its pack, and
Innocentina with her toadstool hat, must have added for the aeronaut
the last touch of shame to our environment.

As for us,--if I may judge the Boy by myself,--we were totting up
against the Italian his stiff crest of hair, for all the world like a
toothbrush, rampant, gules; the smear of wax on the spikes of his
unnecessarily fierce moustache; the ridiculous pinpoints of his narrow
brown shoes; the flaunting newness of his white flannels: the
detestable little tucks in his shirt; his pink necktie.

In fact, each was despising the other for that on which the other
prided himself.

All this passed in a glance, but the frigid atmosphere grew no warmer
for the introduction hastily effected by Gaeta. To be sure, the Boy
bowed, I bowed, and Paolo bowed the lowest of the trio, so that we saw
the parting in his hair; but three honest snorts of defiance would
have been no more unfriendly than our courtesies.

Not a doubt that Gaeta felt the electricity in the air, with the
instinct of a woman; but with the instinct of a born flirt, she
thrilled with it. Her colour rose; her warm eyes sparkled. She was
perfectly happy; for--from her point of view--were there not here
three male beings all secretly ready to fly at one another's throat
for love of her; and what can a spoiled beauty want more?

She covered the little awkwardness with charming tact, for all her
childishness; and then the excuses I made for my defection caused a
diversion. She was so sorry; it was really too bad. I was going to
desert her for other friends. Were not we friends, nice new friends,
so much more interesting than old friends, whom you knew inside-out,
like your frocks or your gloves? But surely, I would come often, very
often to the