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Asabri drove toward Rome, his headlights piercing the darkness. The champagne was no longer in his blood. He was in a calm, judicial mood.

“To think,” he said to himself, “that for a mere matter of a hundred and fifty thousand lire, a rich old man can be young again for a day or two!”

It was nearly one o’clock when he reached his palace in Rome. Luigi, the valet, was sitting up for him, as usual.

“This is the second time in three days,” said Luigi, “that you have been out all night…. A telegram,” he threatened, “would bring the mistress back to Rome.”

“Forgive me, old friend,” said Asabri, and he leaned on Luigi’s shoulder; “but I have fallen in love….”

“What!” screamed the valet. “At your age?”

“It is quite true,” said Asabri, a little sadly, “that at my age a man most easily falls in love–with life.”

“You shall go to bed at once,” said Luigi sternly. “I shall prepare a hot lemonade, and you shall take five grains of quinine…. You are damp…. The mist from the Campagna….”

Asabri yawned in the ancient servitor’s face.

“Luigi,” he said, “I think I shall buy you a farm and a wife; or a barge and a wife….”

“You do, do you?” said Luigi. “And I think you’ll take your quinine like a Trojan, or I’ll know the reason why.”

“Everybody regards me as rather an important person,” complained Asabri, “except you.”

“You were seven years old,” said Luigi, “when I came to serve you. I have aged. But you haven’t. You didn’t know enough then to come in when it rained, as the Americans say. You don’t now. I would not speak of this to others. But to you–yes–for your own good.”

Asabri smiled blissfully.

“In all the world,” he said, “there is only one thing for a man to fear, that he will learn to take the world seriously; in other words, that he will grow up…. You may bring the hot lemonade and the quinine when they are ready.”

And then he blew his nose of a Roman emperor; for he had indeed contracted a slight cold.