When he looked Elsie up at the Vice-President’s that night for the first of the dances she had promised him, he found her on a rustic bench in the garden, almost screened from observation, Rontivogli beside her. The Italian’s classic face was aglow, and Frothingham saw that he had checked a torrent of enamoured eloquence. He saw, also, that Elsie was not pleased by the interruption. However, she left Rontivogli and went with him. As they entered the ballroom he said: “I don’t care for this music, do you? Let’s sit it out. Only”--he gave her a look of quiet raillery--“you must engage not to go back to your volcano until _my_ dance is over.” “Volcano?” A smile of pleased vanity strayed into her eyes and out again. “Yes--your Vesuvius, whose eruption I was brute enough to interrupt. Beastly of me, wasn’t it?” “Rontivogli seems to annoy you a great deal.” “He? Not in the least.” And his tranquil eyeglass affirmed his falsehood. “But I assure you he’ll spout all the fiercer for the interruption. I know those Southern chaps. I don’t wonder we stand no show against ’em. I tossed the sponge as soon as I saw what he was about.” They were sitting on the stairs now and could talk without being overheard. “Possibly you may remember,” he went on, “I said something that was rather important to me--last Thursday, down near the monument--at half-past six precisely, to be exact--I heard a clock strike as I finished. Do you recall it?” Elsie was puzzled by his light, satirical tone. “Yes,” she said. “I do vaguely recall that you said something vague.” “I didn’t mean to be vague. But that doesn’t matter now. I see there’s no chance for me--at present. And I wished to say to you that at least I sha’n’t give up our delightful friendship. No matter what you do with your Italian, you’ll feel that I’m your friend, won’t you?” Frothingham said it as if he meant it; and to a considerable extent he did mean it--chagrined though he was, he fancied her so little in the rôle he had invited her to play that his prospective defeat found him not utterly despondent. He had reasoned out his course carefully and had come to the conclusion that his chance lay in posing as her disinterested friend. Perhaps she would confide in him, would give him the opportunity to advise and criticise--an admirable position from which to undermine and destroy his rival. As Elsie had not fully made up her mind to Rontivogli, and as she saw nothing but advantage to her in keeping Frothingham “on the string,” she responded to his frank and manly appeal. And she believed what he said, as she believed pretty much everything men told her; and she liked him better than ever. “If he were only a prince,” she said to herself regretfully, “and had temperament.” That same night she accepted Rontivogli; when Frothingham came to lunch the next day she told him. “Well,” he drawled, “I can’t say I’m shouting glad. But I can honestly congratulate _him_. And--I hope you won’t regret.”