confidences, though pretending to be lost in
admiration of the _feu d'artifice_.

When the Contessa laughed softly, her little dark head not far from my
ear, the Italian sprang up, and walked away, unable to endure five
minutes of Gaeta's neglect. She and I continued our conversation,
though our eyes wandered, mine in search of the Boy, hers I fancy in
quest of the same object.

Soon I caught sight of the slim, youthful figure, in its rather
fantastic evening dress, the becoming dinner-jacket, the Eton collar,
the loosely tied bow at the throat, and the full, black knickerbocker
trousers, like those worn in the days of Henri Quatre. As I watched it
moving through the crowd, and finally subsiding in a seat under an
isolated tree, I saw the boyish form joined by a tall and manly one.
Paolo di Nivoli had followed his young rival, and presently came to a
stand close to the Boy's chair. He folded his arms, and looked down
into the eyes which were upturned in answer to some word.

We could not see the expression of the two faces. We saw only that the
man and the boy were talking, spasmodically at first, then
continuously.

"I do hope they're not quarrelling," said Gaeta, in the seventh heaven
of delight.

"Of course not," I replied, annoyed at her frivolity. "They are too
sensible."

"Let us make some excuse, and go over to them," she pleaded. "I am
tired of sitting still."

There was nothing for it but to obey her whim. I took her across the
grassy space which divided us from the two under the tree, and she
began to chatter about the fireworks. What did Signor Boy think of
them? Was not Aix a charming place?

But abruptly, in the midst of her babble, Paolo di Nivoli swept her
away from the Boy and me, in his best "whirlwind" manner, which
doubtless thrilled her with mingled terror and delight.

"Nice night, isn't it?" I remarked brilliantly.

"Yes," said the Boy.

"Did the Contessa give you a good dinner?"

"No--yes--that is, I didn't notice."

"Perhaps that was natural."

The Boy did not answer, but I heard him swallow hard. He was on his
feet now, having risen at Gaeta's coming, and he stood kicking the
grass with the point of his small patent-leather toe. Then, suddenly,
he looked up straight into my face, with big dilated eyes.

"What's the matter?" I asked, when still he did not speak.

"Oh, Man, I'm in _the most awful scrape_."

"What's up?"

"I should be thankful to tell you about it, and get