“Very well, mes Americains; we will not implore you longer,” responded the count, carelessly.  “May your evening be as pleasant as ours.”  The two Italians bowed deeply, linked arms and strolled away.

“Say, those fellows know you haven’t an engagement,” exclaimed Savage, wrathfully.  “What sort of an ass are you?”

“See here, Dickey, you’ve still got something to learn in this world.  Don’t imagine you know everything.  You don’t, you know.  Do you think I am going to walk into one of their traps with my eyes open?”

“Traps?  You don’t mean to say this dance hall business is a trap?” exclaimed Dickey, his eyes opening wide with an interest entirely foreign to his placid nature.

“I don’t know, and that’s why I am keeping cut of it.  Now, let’s take our walk, a nice cool drink or two and go to bed where we can dream about what might have happened to us at the dance hall.”

“Where does she live?” asked Savage, as they left the rotunda.

“Avenue Louise,” was the laconic answer.

“Why don’t you say Belgium or Europe, if you’re bound to be explicit,” growled Dickey.

A dapper-looking young man came from the hotel a few paces behind them and followed, swinging his light cane leisurely.  Across the place, in the shadow of a tall building, the two Italian noblemen saw the Americans depart, noting the direction they took.  It was toward the Avenue Louise.  A smile of satisfaction came to their faces when the dapper stranger made his appearance.  A few moments later they were speeding in a cab toward the avenue.

“That is her house,” said Phil, later on, as the two strolled slowly down the Avenue Louise.  They were across the street from the Garrison home, and the shadowy-trees hid them.  The tall lover knew, however, that the Italian was, with her and that his willfulness of the afternoon had availed him naught.  Nor could he recall a single atom of hope and encouragement his bold act had produced other than the simple fact that she had submitted as gracefully as possible to the inevitable and had made the best of it.

“Ugo has the center of the stage, and everybody else is in the orchestra, playing fiddles of secondary importance, while Miss Dorothy is the lone and only audience,” reflected Dickey.

“I wish you’d confine your miserable speculations to the weather, Dickey,” said the other, testily.

“With pleasure.  To-morrow will be a delightful day for a drive or a stroll.  You and I, having nothing else to do, can take an all-day drive into the country and get acquainted with the Belgian birds and bees—­and the hares, too.”

“Don’t be an ass!  What sort of a game do you think those Italians were up to this evening?  I’m as nervous as the devil.  It’s time for the game to come to a head, and wa may as well expect something sudden.”