I wondered how it was going to be possible for me to rescue Mrs. Mullet under the circumstances of our covenant of non-interference. We turned and left this splendid memorial to the great apostle Paul. Count Carola was waiting for us at the step of the car, and kissed the hands of Mrs. Norris and Gwendolyn, and assisted them to their seats. I was presented to him, and am forced to say that I didn't like the cut of his jib. Still, I'm very particular about jibs, especially the jib of a new boat. “Poor dear boy!” Mrs. Norris exclaimed, as we drove away. “There's a lover for you!” “He grows handsomer every day,” said Gwendolyn, in a low, lyrical tone. “It's his suffering,” Mrs. Norris half moaned. “Do you really think so?” the young lady sympathized. “Hold on, Juliet!” said I. “If I were you I'd shoo him off the balcony. He's a perfect lily of a man, but he won't do--too generous, too devoted! We have men like him in America. There their titles are never mentioned in the best society, and their persons are often cruelly injured. For a badge of rank they have adopted a kind of liver-pad which they wear often over one eye or the other. Of course on Broadway they haven't the romantic environment of Italy, and are subject to all kinds of violence.” Mrs. Norris flashed a glance of surprise at me. “You are a cruel iconoclast,” said she. “He belongs to one of the best families in Italy.” “And if I were you I'd let him continue to belong to it; at least, I wouldn't want to buy him. He acts like a book-agent or a seller of lightning-rods, or a train-boy with his chocolates and chewing-gum. He won't take 'No' for an answer. He keeps tossing his wares into your laps and seems to say: 'For God's sake, think of my starving family and make me some kind of an offer.' Do you think that compares in dignity with the self-possession of Richard?” The ladies exchanged glances. Gwendolyn laughed and blushed. Mrs. Norris smiled. I went on: “He defaces the landscape like the portraits of the late Mr. Mennen in America. He shows up everywhere as an advertisement for his own charms.” [Illustration: 0106] “That's his legend.” “It's just a little ridiculous, isn't it?” said the girl. “Oh, the poor boy is in love!” Mrs. Norris pleaded, in a begging, purring tone which said, plainly enough, “Of course you are right, but every boy is a fool when he is in love, isn't he?” “So is Richard in love,” I boldly declared for him, “but he isn't on the bargain-counter; he isn't damaged, shop-worn, or out of date; he hasn't been marked down.” Two pairs of eyes stared at mine with a prying gaze. Gwendolyn leaned forward and grasped my hand. “Who in the world is he in love with?” she asked, eagerly. “Tell me at once.” “Himself!” Mrs. Norris exclaimed, before I could answer. “No; with Gwendolyn,” I ventured. Both seemed to relax suddenly, and their backs touched the upholstery. “I haven't a doubt of it,” was my firm assertion. The fair maid leaned toward me again.