he would spoil everything, and he was as quiet as he knew how to be. This is not saying much, for he always had an itch to play with fire. It was really the desire to keep his hands off Wilmerding that led me to deal with our friend in my own manner. I remember that as we stood there together Montaut made several humorous attempts to treat him as a great conqueror, of which I think Wilmerding honestly failed to perceive the drift. It was Montaut's saying "You ought to bring them back—we miss them too much," that made me prepare to draw our amiable victim away.
"They're not my property," Wilmerding replied, accepting the allusion this time as to the four English ladies.
"Ah, all of them, mon cher—I never supposed!" the Frenchman cried, with great merriment, as I broke up our colloquy. I laughed, too—the image he presented seemed comical then—and judged that we had better leave the church. I proposed we should take a turn on the Pincian, crossing the Tiber by the primitive ferry which in those days still plied at the marble steps of the Ripetta, just under the back- windows of the Borghese palace.
"Montaut was talking nonsense just then, but have they refused you?" I asked as we took our way along the rustic lane that used to wander behind the castle of St. Angelo, skirting the old grassy fortifications and coming down to the Tiber between market-gardens, vine yards and dusty little trellised suburban drinking-shops which had a withered bush over the gate.
"Have who refused me?"
"Ah, you keep it up too long!" I answered; and I was silent a little.
"What's the matter with you this afternoon?" he asked. "Why can't you leave the poor Goldies alone?"