my bonus, to speak strictly, vanished within six months after I first set foot in “Mon Repos,” and I found it necessary to make that temporary use of the “interest fund,” which the President had indicated as open to me under the terms of our bargain.  However, my uneasiness on this score was lightened when the next installment of interest was punctually paid, and, with youthful confidence, I made little doubt that luck would turn before long.

Thus time passed on, and the beginning of 1884 found us all leading an apparently merry and untroubled life.  In public affairs the temper was very different.  The scarcity of money was intense, and serious murmuring had arises when the President “squandered” his ready money in buying interest, leaving his civil servants and soldiers unpaid.  This was the topic of much discussion in the press at the time, when I went up one March evening to the signorina’s.  I had been detained at the bank, and found the play in full swing when I came in.  The signorina was taking no part in it, but sat by herself on a low lounge by the veranda window.  I went up to her and made my bow.

“You spare us but little of your time, Mr. Martin,” she said.

“Ah, but you have all my thoughts,” I replied, for she was looking charming.

“I don’t care so much about your thoughts,” she said.  Then, after a pause, she went on, “It’s very hot here, come into the conservatory.”

It almost looked as though she had been waiting for me, and I followed in high delight into the long, narrow glass house running parallel to the salon.  High green plants hid us from the view of those inside, and we only heard distinctly his Excellency’s voice, saying with much geniality to the colonel, “Well, you must be lucky in love, colonel,” from which I concluded that the colonel was not in the vein at cards.

The signorina smiled slightly as she heard; then she plucked a white rose, turned round, and stood facing me, slightly flushed as though with some inner excitement.

“I am afraid those two gentlemen do not love one another,” she said.

“Hardly,” I assented.

“And you, do you love them—­or either of them?”

“I love only one person in Aureataland,” I replied, as ardently as I dared.

The signorina bit her rose, glancing up at me with unfeigned amusement and pleasure.  I think I have mentioned that she didn’t object to honest admiration.

“Is it possible you mean me?” she said, making me a little courtesy.  “I only think so because most of the Whittingham ladies would not satisfy your fastidious taste.”

“No lady in the world could satisfy me except one,” I answered, thinking she took it a little too lightly.

“Ah! so you say,” she said.  “And yet I don’t suppose you would do anything for me, Mr. Martin?”

“It would be my greatest happiness,” I cried.

She said nothing, but stood there, biting the rose.