She laughed merrily as she answered, "He's quite old enough to take care of himself. I cannot undertake the responsibility. Good-bye," and she tripped away up the stairs to her own apartments. "Old fellow," exclaimed Bob, after she was out of hearing, "if you feel inclined to pitch yourself into the matrimonial net, there's your chance; and I wish you every success." "Well, there are more unlikely things than my enlistment in the ranks of Benedicts," I replied, laughing, as we sought our hats and went out to spend our last evening together. Early the following morning Nugent departed for Turin, _en route_ for England, and I was left alone to amuse myself as best I could. Truth to tell, I was not sorry Bob had gone, for now I felt free to devote myself to the beautiful woman who held me under her spell. I lost no time in carrying out my object, for meeting her in the drawing-room before dinner, I obtained permission to escort her on her evening walk. It was already dusk when the tediously long meal was brought to a conclusion, and we left the hotel, strolling along the Galleria Mazzini towards the public gardens of Aqua Sola, the most charming promenade in Genoa. It is situated upon a picturesque cliff overlooking the port and the Mediterranean beyond, while at the rear rise the tall vine-covered Appenines, with romantic-looking villas peeping out here and there from amongst the olives and maize. The shadow of its great old trees form a delightful retreat from the scorching noon-day sun; but at night, when the people refresh themselves after the heat and burden of the day, its gravelled walks are thronged by the _elite_. Fashionable Genoa enjoys herself with mad but harmless frolic, and under the deep shadows fire-flies flit and couples flirt. Upon an old stone seat near a plashing fountain we sat listening to the sweet melancholy strains of the _Sempre Vostro_ waltz, performed by the splendid band of the National Guard. On the right the many-coloured fairy lamps of the gardens attached to the Caffe d'Italia shone through the dark foliage; on the left the ripple of the sea surged softly far below. Away across the moonlit waters flashed the warning beacon of the port, and the air was heavy with the sensuous odour of orange blossom and roses. For upwards of an hour we sat talking; she _piquante_, bright, and amusing; I lazily enjoying a cigar, and watching her beautiful face in rapt admiration. I told her of myself--how the interest in my sole object in life had been suddenly destroyed by affluence--and my present position, that of a world-weary tourist, with no definite purpose farther than killing time. All my efforts to learn some events of her past life or her place of abode were unavailing. "I am plain Vera Seroff," she replied, "and I, too, am a wanderer--what you call bird of passage. I have no country, alas! even if I have patriotism." "But you are Russian?" I said.