Along this walk, on Christmas Day, a tall young man walked slowly, with his hands behind him, and a somewhat absent expression of countenance. He looked like an Italian, was dressed like an Englishman, and had the independent air of an American—a combination which caused sundry pairs of feminine eyes to look approvingly after him, and sundry dandies in black velvet suits, with rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and orange flowers in their buttonholes, to shrug their shoulders, and then envy him his inches. There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but the young man took little notice of them, except to glance now and then at some blonde girl in blue. Presently he strolled out of the promenade and stood a moment at the crossing, as if undecided whether to go and listen to the band in the Jardin Publique, or to wander along the beach toward Castle Hill. The quick trot of ponies’ feet made him look up, as one of the little carriages, containing a single young lady, came rapidly down the street. The lady was young, blonde, and dressed in blue. He stared a minute, then his whole face woke up, and, waving his hat like a boy, he hurried forward to meet her.
“Oh, Laurie, is it really you? I thought you’d never come!” cried Amy, dropping the reins and holding out both hands, to the great scandalization of a French mamma, who hastened her daughter’s steps, lest she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners of these ‘mad English’.
“I was detained by the way, but I promised to spend Christmas with you, and here I am.”
“How is your grandfather? When did you come? Where are you staying?”
“Very well—last night—at the Chauvain. I called at your hotel, but you were out.”
“I have so much to say, I don’t know where to begin! Get in and we can talk at our ease. I was going for a drive and longing for company. Flo’s saving up for tonight.”
“What happens then, a ball?”
“A Christmas party at our hotel. There are many Americans there, and they give it in honor of the day. You’ll go with us, of course? Aunt will be charmed.”
“Thank you. Where now?” asked Laurie, leaning back and folding his arms, a proceeding which suited Amy, who preferred to drive, for her parasol whip and blue reins over the white ponies’ backs afforded her infinite satisfaction.
“I’m going to the bankers first for letters, and then to Castle Hill. The view is so lovely, and I like to feed the peacocks. Have you ever been there?”