“Why, Maggie, that boy Everard is only some years younger than the Count, unless the Italian looks much younger than he is; besides that, if the Count is from Italy how can the French Marquis be the boy’s cousin? And why do they come from the States?” asked Mr. Alexander deeply puzzled.
Mr. Fabian mistrusted the whole story, yet he had to admit that Traviston seemed most honest the day he spoke of his title and name. So he said nothing, but hoped to be spared further agonies from Mrs. Alexander’s worship of nobility as per her ideals.
Mrs. Fabian was back with Mrs. Alexander, and the two boys were in their car; all were travelling along the road at a good speed, and the girls were picturing what the wonderful old Chalmys’ palace would be like, when a long low car with splendid lines approached, coming from the opposite direction.
“If there isn’t Chalmys! Coming to meet us!” exclaimed Traviston, to the people in the other cars.
“How lovely of him!” sighed Mrs. Alexander, almost running her car into the ditch in her eagerness to see the Count.
The long-nosed car drew up beside the touring car and the Count leaned over the side.
“Well, this is a great pleasure, Mr. Fabian! And the ladies—how are they? As beautiful as ever, I warrant,” called he, gallantly.
The passengers in Mr. Alexander’s car exchanged pleasant greetings with the Count who then asked pardon while he welcomed his two friends. He urged his car along a few feet further until it was opposite the boys’ car, and there they conversed eagerly for a few minutes.
Mr. Alexander nudged Mr. Fabian and whispered: “Did you-all hear him say ‘I want to speak to my two friends?’ He diden’ say ‘I want to speak to my son.’”
Mr. Fabian nodded understandingly, but watched the Count closely. No look of paternal affection was given Everard, and if he was his son who had been absent from home so long, why wouldn’t the impulsive Italian father greet him eagerly? It was a puzzle that became more intricate, to Mr. Fabian and Mr. Alexander.