"Of freedom, yes. I was promised a month's vacation; a month to spend as I chose, but I have good reason to know the promise has been revoked. Oh, not for any cause,—just my uncle's whim. He is fond of playing with me so."
"Do you always do what he says?" queried the young America incredulously.
"I have that habit; it is safer, and more virtuous. Still, virtue palls when its reward is invisible. When I go back to the hotel, Petro will hand me a telegram demanding my return to the Empire."
"Then I would not go back to the hotel," was the blithe suggestion. "Run before you are told to stay. Come share my bachelor hut and let Rome vociferate for a while."
"You are not in earnest," said the other, turning to look at him with an odd, eager surprise.
Allard had not been, but he adopted his own idea with the light-hearted impulsiveness of his bel age.
"Why not? My people—my brother and aunt and cousin—have gone for a glimpse of Germany; and I have stayed here to cram for my last year of college. I have a delicious miniature villa five miles out of town, which I have taken until their return, and which is a thousand times too big for me alone. Come stay out your vacation with me. If your uncle promised you a month, he can not complain if you take it. It is not your fault if you do not receive his old telegram."
"No. I am not supposed to know it is coming."
"Well, then, why not come? Send a note to your servant at the hotel, and tell him you are visiting a friend. He will have to telegraph your uncle that you are not to be found."
The European stood up and looked out across the shining water.