“I have had none. No one has adventures nowadays,” he said. “I had a fortnight on an American friend’s yacht in the Mediterranean, and we had some rather dirty weather, but nothing to hurt. That’s my nearest approach to an adventure. I had a month at Monte Carlo, shot a good many pigeons, and missed nearly as many as I shot; played a little, with varying luck, but am not ruined; came off on the whole a winner, though to no substantial amount, perhaps enough to buy a pair of solitaires for Maud’s pretty little ears”—pinching the ear that was nearest him, as the girl sat on a low chair at his side. “No, I have had no adventures. I have only been in familiar places. Let me see, from where did I write last?”
“From Bologna, ages ago; a shabby little letter,” answered Maud.
“Ah, I spent a few days in Bologna after I left Florence. I am rather fond of Bologna.”
“And after that? Where did you go after Bologna? It must be nearly two months since you were there.”
“Oh, I went to Padua and—and Verona,” he answered carelessly, “and then back to Genoa, and then I dawdled along the Riviera, stopping a night or two here and there, to Marseilles; and here I am. That is my history—and I am ready for another cup of tea.”
Maud filled his cup, and offered him dainty biscuits and tempting cakes, and hung about him fondly, touching the thick hair which made such a waving line across the broad forehead.
“Why, how tremendously sunburnt you are!” she exclaimed. “You look as if you had just come off a sea voyage.”
“Do I? Well, I have basked in the sun that shines upon the Mediterranean; and a March sun on the Riviera is a blazer.”
“And you were at Bologna and Padua, and did not go to your beloved Venice?” said his mother. “I thought you were so fond of Venice?”
“Yes, I delight in the place, but I wanted to go back to the Riviera, where I should be more secure of sunshine and balmy air.”