a particle. I could not reproduce the innocent talk, half gay, half sad,
of this long interview, but before he went away the count drew me aside:
"Will you give this to Miss St. Clair when I am gone?"

I unfolded the package: it contained a photograph of himself and a small
painting which he had executed of the Coliseum on the night of the
illumination. "Yes."

"And will you send me her photograph from Paris? I will have it copied
by the best miniature-painter in Rome and put in a locket set with
diamonds," said the boy enthusiastically.

"I cannot promise."

"Do you think I could be of any use to her father? Not to win his favor,
you understand, but I should be so happy to do anything to serve her or
her friends. Can't you tell me now?"

"No. Mr. St. Clair does not need assistance in any way that I know."

In spite of the boy's earnestness, the idea of his offering patronage to
the mature and independent American struck me as irresistibly ludicrous.

"But you will tell him all about me."

"Yes."

"I shall learn to speak English--I have begun already--and in a year I
shall be in America. Will you write your address for me on this card?"