“Oh, nothing in particular to which she could reasonably object,” returned Harley. “The incidents of a truly realistic novel are rarely objectionable, except to people of a captious nature. I intended to have Bonetti dance attendance upon Miss Andrews for the balance of the season, that’s all, hoping thereby to present a good picture of life at Newport in July and part of August. About the middle of August I was going to transport the whole cast to Bar Harbor, for variety’s sake. That would have been another opportunity to get a good deal of the American summer atmosphere into the book. I wish I could afford the kind of summer I contemplated giving her.” “You didn’t intend that she should fall in love with Bonetti?” I asked. “Not to any serious extent,” said Harley, deprecatingly. “Even if she had a little, she’d have come out of it all right as soon as the hero turned up, and she had a chance to see the difference between a manly man of her own country and a little titled fortune hunter from the land of macaroni. Bonetti wasn’t to be a bad fellow at all. He was merely an Italian, which he couldn’t help, being born so, and therefore, as she said, of an acquisitive nature. There is no villany in that, however—that is, no reprehensible villany. He was after a rich marriage because he was fond of a life of ease. She’d have found him amusing, at any rate.” “But he was bogus!” I suggested. “Not at all,” said Harley, impatiently. “That’s what vexes me more than anything else. She made a very bad mistake there. As a Count, Bonetti was quite as real as his financial necessities.” “It was a beastly awkward situation, that conservatory scene,” said I. “Especially for Willard. The Count might have challenged him. What became of the Count when it was over?”