He was the--what is that you call?--oh, yes; he 'make himself,'
you say: that is it. My frien', he was abominable! He brag'; he talk' through the nose; yes, and he was niggardly, rich as he was!
But you, you yo'ng men of the new generation, you are gentlemen of the idleness; you are aristocrats, with polish an' with culture.
An' yet you throw your money away--yes, you throw it to poor Europe as if to a beggar!""No, no," he protested with an indulgent laugh which confessed that the truth was really "Yes, yes.""Your smile betray' you!" she cried triumphantly. "More than jus'
bein' guilty of that fault, I am goin' to tell you of others. You are not the ole-time--what is it you say?--Ah, yes, the 'goody-goody.' I have heard my great American frien', Honor-able Chanlair Pedlow, call it the Sonday-school. Is it not? Yes, you are not the Sonday-school yo'ng men, you an' your class!""No," he said, bestowing a long glance upon a stout nurse who was sitting on a bench near the drive and attending to twins in a perambulator. "No, we're not exactly dissenting parsons.""Ah, no!" She shook her head at him prettily. "You are wicked!
You are up into all the mischief! Have I not hear what wild sums you risk at your game, that poker? You are famous for it.""Oh, we play," he admitted with a reckless laugh, "and I suppose we do play rather high.""High!" she echoed. "~Souzands!~ But that is not all. Ha, ha, ha, naughty one! Have I not observe' you lookin' at these pretty creature', the little contadina-girl, an' the poor ladies who have hire' their carriages for two lire to drive up and down the Pincio in their bes' dress an' be admire' by the yo'ng American while the music play'? Which one I wonder, is it on whose wrist you would mos' like to fasten a bracelet of diamon's? Wicked, I have watch'
you look at them-?
"No, no," he interrupted earnestly. "I have not once looked away from you, I ~could n't~." Their eyes met, but instantly hers were lowered; the bright smile with which she had been rallying him faded and there was a pause during which he felt that she had become very grave. When she spoke, it was with a little quaver, and the controlled pathos of her voice was so intense that it evoked a sympathetic catch in his own throat.
"But, my frien', if it should be that I cannot wish you to look so at me, or to speak so to me?""I beg your pardon!" he exclaimed, almost incoherently. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I wouldn't do anything you'd think ungentlemanly for the world!"Her eyes lifted again to his with what he had no difficulty in recognizing as a look of perfect trust; but, behind that, he perceived a darkling sadness.
"I know it is true," she murmured-- "I know. But you see there are time' when a woman has sorrow--sorrow of one kind--when she mus' be sure that there is only--only rispec' in the hearts of her frien's."With that, the intended revelation was complete, and the young man understood, as clearly as if she had told him in so many words, that she was not a widow and that her husband was the cause of her sorrow. His quickened instinct marvelously divined (or else it was conveyed to him by some intangible method of hers) that the Count de Vaurigard was a very bad case, but that she would not divorce him.
"I know," he answered, profoundly touched. "I understand."In silent gratitude she laid her hand for a second upon his sleeve.
Then her face brightened, and she said gayly:
"But we shall not talk of ~me!~ Let us see how we can keep you out of mischief at leas' for a little while. I know very well what you will do to-night: you will go to Salone Margherita an' sit in a box like all the wicked Americans--""No, indeed, I shall not!""Ah, yes, you will!" she laughed. "But until dinner let me keep you from wickedness. Come to tea jus' wiz me, not at the hotel, but at the little apartment I have taken, where it is quiet. The music is finish', an' all those pretty girl' are goin' away, you see. I am not selfish if I take you from the Pincio now. You will come?
