"I was horribly worried at dinner," whispered Gaetà to me, the light of the fireworks playing rosily over her face. "Those two--you know of whom I speak--weren't a bit nice to each other. It was Paolo who began it, of course, saying little, hateful things that sounded smooth, but had a second meaning; and Signor Boy is not stupid. He did not miss the bad intention, oh, not he, and he said other little things back again, much sharper and wittier than Paolo, who was furious, and gnawed his lip. It was most exciting." "Did you try to pour oil on the troubled waters?" I asked. "I was very pleasant to them both, if that is what you mean, first to one and then to the other. After dinner, I gave Signor Boy a rose, and Paolo a gardenia." "How charming of you," I commented drily. "If that didn't smooth matters, what could?" The aëronaut was sitting on Gaetà's left, I on her right, with the Baronessa next me on the other side, and both were straining every nerve to hear our confidences, though pretending to be lost in admiration of the _feu d'artifice_. When the Contessa laughed softly, her little dark head not far from my ear, the Italian sprang up, and walked away, unable to endure five minutes of Gaetà's neglect. She and I continued our conversation, though our eyes wandered, mine in search of the Boy, hers I fancy in quest of the same object. Soon I caught sight of the slim, youthful figure, in its rather fantastic evening dress, the becoming dinner-jacket, the Eton collar, the loosely tied bow at the throat, and the full, black knickerbocker trousers, like those worn in the days of Henri Quatre. As I watched it moving through the crowd, and finally subsiding in a seat under an isolated tree, I saw the boyish form joined by a tall and manly one. Paolo di Nivoli had followed his young rival, and presently came to a stand close to the Boy's chair. He folded his arms, and looked down into the eyes which were upturned in answer to some word. We could not see the expression of the two faces. We saw only that the man and the boy were talking, spasmodically at first, then continuously. "I do hope they're not quarrelling," said Gaetà, in the seventh heaven of delight. "Of course not," I replied, annoyed at her frivolity. "They are too sensible." "Let us make some excuse, and go over to them," she pleaded. "I am tired of sitting still." There was nothing for it but to obey her whim. I took her across the grassy space which divided us from the two under the tree, and she began to chatter about the fireworks. What did Signor Boy think of them? Was not Aix a charming place? But abruptly, in the midst of her babble, Paolo di Nivoli swept her away from the Boy and me, in his best "whirlwind" manner, which doubtless thrilled her with mingled terror and delight. "Nice night, isn't it?" I remarked brilliantly. "Yes," said the Boy. "Did the Contessa give you a good dinner?" "No--yes--that is, I didn't notice." "Perhaps that was natural."