Boughton and he dined together at the Metropolitan Club. While they were having a before-dinner cocktail Boughton told him, in confidence, that he was engaged to Ysobel Ballantyne. “So that’s why I find Rontivogli poaching,” thought Frothingham. And he said presently: “What do you know about that chap Rontivogli? He looks a queer ’un.”
“Not a thing,” replied Boughton. “I had all our fellows writing over to the other side, following him up. The answers thus far show nothing downright shady. He’s down to a box of a house and a few acres just north of Milan. And that’s swamped in mortgages. No one knows how he raised the wind for this trip. He seems to have a good bit of cash, doesn’t he?”
“I’m particularly interested in knowing about him,” continued Frothingham. “He’s developed an astonishing interest in a girl friend of mine. I’d hate to see her taken in by a scamp. And I’m sure he’s that.”
“Oh,” said Boughton. “Miss Pope?”
“Yes,” replied Frothingham. “And she thinks well of him.”
“I’ll be glad to help you, old man. I sha’n’t drop my inquiry as I’d intended.”
“Thanks,” said Frothingham. And they talked of other matters.
When he looked Elsie up at the Vice-President’s that night for the first of the dances she had promised him, he found her on a rustic bench in the garden, almost screened from observation, Rontivogli beside her. The Italian’s classic face was aglow, and Frothingham saw that he had checked a torrent of enamoured eloquence. He saw, also, that Elsie was not pleased by the interruption. However, she left Rontivogli and went with him. As they entered the ballroom he said: “I don’t care for this music, do you? Let’s sit it out. Only”—he gave her a look of quiet raillery—“you must engage not to go back to your volcano until my dance is over.”
“Volcano?” A smile of pleased vanity strayed into her eyes and out again.
“Yes—your Vesuvius, whose eruption I was brute enough to interrupt. Beastly of me, wasn’t it?”