His Own People | Page 7

--ah, that
is for the American!" she laughed. "That is for you who are all so
abomin-~ab~-ly rich!" She smiled to the Italian again, and both of them
smiled beamingly on Mellin.
"But that isn't always our fault, is it?" said Mellin easily.
"Aha! You mean you are of the new generation, of the yo'ng American'
who come over an' try to spen' these immense fortune' --those
~'pile'~--your father or your gran-father make! I know quite well. Ah?"
"Well," he hesitated, smiling. "I suppose it does look a little by way of
being like that."
"Wicked fellow!" She leaned forward and tapped his shoulder
chidingly with two fingers. "I know what you wish the mos' in the
worl'--you wish to get into mischief. That is it! No, sir, I will jus' take
you in han'!"
"When will you take me?" he asked boldly.
At this, the pleasant murmur of laughter--half actual and half
suggested--with which she underlined the conversation, became loud
and clear, as she allowed her vivacious glance to strike straight into his
upturned eyes, and answered:
"As long as a little turn roun' the hill, now. Cavaliere Corni--"
To Mellin's surprise and delight the Italian immediately descended
from the victoria without the slightest appearance of irritation; on the
contrary, he was urbane to a fine degree, and, upon Madame de
Vaurigard's formally introducing him to Mellin, saluted the latter with
grave politeness, expressing in good English a hope that they might

meet often. When the American was installed at the Countess' side she
spoke to the driver in Italian, and they began to move slowly along the
ilex avenue, the coachman reining his horses to a walk.
"You speak Italian?" she inquired.
"Oh, not a great deal more than a smattering," he replied airily --a
truthful answer, inasmuch as a vocabulary consisting simply of
~"quanty costy"~ and ~"troppo"~ cannot be seriously considered much
more than a smattering. Fortunately she made no test of his linguistic
attainment, but returned to her former subject.
"Ah, yes, all the worl' to-day know' the new class of American," she
said--"your class. Many year' ago we have another class which Europe
didn' like. That was when the American was ter-ri-ble! He was
the--what is that you call?--oh, yes; he 'make himself,' you say: that is it.
My frien', he was abominable! He brag'; he talk' through the nose; yes,
and he was niggardly, rich as he was! But you, you yo'ng men of the
new generation, you are gentlemen of the idleness; you are aristocrats,
with polish an' with culture. An' yet you throw your money away--yes,
you throw it to poor Europe as if to a beggar!"
"No, no," he protested with an indulgent laugh which confessed that the
truth was really "Yes, yes."
"Your smile betray' you!" she cried triumphantly. "More than jus' bein'
guilty of that fault, I am goin' to tell you of others. You are not the
ole-time--what is it you say?--Ah, yes, the 'goody- goody.' I have heard
my great American frien', Honor-able Chanlair Pedlow, call it the
Sonday-school. Is it not? Yes, you are not the Sonday-school yo'ng
men, you an' your class!"
"No," he said, bestowing a long glance upon a stout nurse who was
sitting on a bench near the drive and attending to twins in a
perambulator. "No, we're not exactly dissenting parsons."
"Ah, no!" She shook her head at him prettily. "You are wicked! You
are up into all the mischief! Have I not hear what wild sums you risk at
your game, that poker? You are famous for it."
"Oh, we play," he admitted with a reckless laugh, "and I suppose we do
play rather high."
"High!" she echoed. "~Souzands!~ But that is not all. Ha, ha, ha,
naughty one! Have I not observe' you lookin' at these pretty creature',
the little contadina-girl, an' the poor ladies who have hire' their

carriages for two lire to drive up and down the Pincio in their bes' dress
an' be admire' by the yo'ng American while the music play'? Which one
I wonder, is it on whose wrist you would mos' like to fasten a bracelet
of diamon's? Wicked, I have watch' you look at them-—"
"No, no," he interrupted earnestly. "I have not once looked away from
you, I ~could n't~." Their eyes met, but instantly hers were lowered; the
bright smile with which she had been rallying him faded and there was
a pause during which he felt that she had become very grave. When she
spoke, it was with a little quaver, and the controlled pathos of her voice
was so intense that it evoked a sympathetic catch in his own throat.
"But, my frien', if it should be that I cannot wish you to look so at me,
or to speak