But the Boy did not, apparently, feel the least magnetic attraction
towards Paolo's throat, or any other vulnerable part of the aeronaut's
person. Nor did he stamp on the ground, crying upon earth to open and
swallow the master of the air. I, too, kept an unmoved front; but
then, being English, that might have been pardoned to my national
_sang-froid_. There was, however, no such excuse for the mercurial
young American, and flat disappointment struck out the spark in
Gaeta's eye. The second act of her little drama seemed doomed to
failure.
"_Mille congratulations_," said the Boy cordially, I basely echoing
him. We shook hands with Gaeta; we shook hands with Paolo, and
something was said about weddings and wedding-cake. Then the Baron and
Baronessa appeared so opportunely as to give rise to the base
suspicion that they had been eavesdropping. More polite things were
mumbled, and we went to luncheon, Gaeta on Paolo's arm, with a
disappointed droop of her pretty shoulders. We drank to the health and
happiness of the newly affianced pair, a habit which seemed to be
growing upon me of late, and might lead me down the fatal grade of
bachelordom. The Boy and I were unable to conceal, as we ought to have
done out of politeness, the fact that our appetites had sustained the
shock of our lady's engagement, and I saw in her eyes that she could
never wholly forgive us, no, not even if we made love to her after
marriage.
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