But he shook his head. “No,” he answered, decidedly, “but thank you--and so much--you got those for yourself, and I’m afraid I’ve spoiled your party now--you have been _most kind_--” and then he drank the water the little boy had brought, said a few words of thanks in Italian, and sat looking before him. I had settled by him on the step, and sitting there wasn’t bad, for the rain had turned to so gentle a mist that it was little more than a fog, and it was getting so dark that the passing venders thought we were only natives, and so they didn’t bother us to buy lumpy looking statuettes or postcards or rhinestone combs. The open-faced shops sent out shafts of light that were so dulled by the haze that they looked strained, and I can’t exactly explain but it was sort of cozy and nice in spite of the dampness, and pretty too. After a little time my sick friend turned. “You must get on,” he stated. “I’m not in any hurry,” I answered. “But it’s getting late for you,” he said as he looked down. I liked his face even then. Later, Leslie said he wasn’t handsome, and she said that the only two really handsome men she had ever seen were Ben Forbes (_and he has a pink wart on his chin!_) and Wallace Reid; but I think that kind eyes and a good mouth and a firm chin make a man handsome, and I stick to it that Sam _is_. “I’m going to take you home,” I stated, very seriously, and my friend laughed and then I knew him; for I had heard him laugh in that happy, quick way as he leaned out of a studio window that looked into our court and answered the sallies of Gino, who was rubbing his brasses down below. “You are a dear and kind little soul,” he said after the laugh faded, “but that tickled me; you are about four feet long, aren’t you? And I’m a perfect telegraph pole, and pretty heavy. Anyway--” he had grown very serious, “do you think I am going to let you bother any more with me? You’ve wasted too much time now, and--what’s more important--one of your lovely cream puffs--” and after he said that he looked at the bag again, looked away quickly, and swallowed hard. I knew I had to do _something_ to make him let me help him, because I could see that he was stiff-necked, and that he intended to be independent, and so I said--and rather softly because I was embarrassed--“But I owe you _lots_--” He said, “How come?” and turned again to look down at me, and I told him, and as I told him he listened hard, and once--of course I must have been mistaken--I thought his eyes filled. “Well,” he said, after I finished, “_Well_,” and then, “_You poor little chap!_” “Oh,” I said, “I’m all right now, but you see you helped me when I was unhappy and so it’s no more than fair that I should take you home, and--and--share my cream puffs--” Then an old lady who carried a scaldino--which is a funny little stove that stands on legs and looks like a stewpot--came out of the door, and we stood up. “Can you move?” I asked anxiously.