shifted his weight.
“I am an American too,” he observed.
“Really?” The girl leaned forward and examined him more closely, an innocent, candid, wholly detached look in her eyes. “From your appearance I should have said you were German—most of the foreigners who visit Valedolmo are German.”
“Well, I’m not,” he said shortly. “I’m American.”
“It is a pity my father is not at home,” she returned, “he enjoys meeting Americans.”
A gleam of anger replaced the embarrassment in the young man’s eyes. He glanced about for a dignified means of escape; they had him pretty well penned in. Unless he wished to reclimb the wall—and he did not—he must go by the terrace which retreat was cut off by the washer-women, or by the parapet, already occupied by the girl in white and the washing. He turned abruptly and his elbow brushed a stocking to the ground.
He stooped to pick it up and then he blushed still a shade deeper.
“This is washing day,” observed the girl with a note of apology. She rose to her feet and stood on the top of the parapet while she beckoned to Giuseppe, then she turned and looked down upon the young man with an expression of frank amusement. “I hope you will enjoy the cedar of Lebanon and the India rubber tree. Good afternoon.”
She jumped to the ground and crossed to the water-steps where Giuseppe, with a radiant smile, was steadying the boat against the landing. She settled herself comfortably among the cushions and then for a moment glanced back towards shore.
“You would better go out by the gate,” she called. “The wall on the farther side is harder to climb than the one you came in by; and besides, it has broken glass on the top.”
Giuseppe raised the yellow sail and the Farfalla with a graceful dip, glided out to sea. The young man stood eyeing its progress revengefully. Now that the girl was out of hearing, a number of pointed things occurred to him which he might have said. His thoughts were interrupted by a fresh giggle from behind and he found that the three washer-girls were laughing at him.
“Your mistress’s manners are not the best in the world,” said he, severely, “and I am obliged to add that yours are no better.”
They giggled again, though there was no malice behind their humor; it was merely that they found the lack of a language in common a mirth-provoking circumstance. Marietta, with a flash of black eyes, murmured something very kindly in Italian, as she shook out a linen sailor suit—the exact twin of the one that had gone to sea—and spread it on the wall to dry.
The young man did not linger for further words. Setting his hat firmly on his head, he vaulted the parapet and strode off down the cypress alley that stretched before him; he passed the pink villa without a glance. At the gate he stood aside to admit a horse and rider. The horse was prancing in spite of the heat; the rider wore a uniform and a shining sword. There was a clank of accoutrements as he passed, and the wayfarer caught a gleam of piercing black eyes and a slight black moustache turned up at the ends. The rider saluted politely and indifferently, and jangled on. The young man scowled after him maliciously until the cypresses hid him from view; then he turned and took up the dusty road back towards the Hotel du Lac.
It was close upon five, and Gustavo was in the court-yard feeding the parrot, when his eye fell upon the American guest scuffling down the road in a cloud of white dust. Gustavo hastened to the gate to welcome him back, his very eyebrows expressive of his eagerness for news.
“You are returned, signore?”
The young man paused and regarded him unemotionally.
“Yes, Gustavo, I am returned—with thanks.”
“You have seen ze Signorina Costantina?”
“Yes, I saw her.”
“And is it not as I have said, zat she is beautiful as ze holy angels?”
“Yes, Gustavo, she is—and just about equally remote. You may make out my bill.”
The waiter’s face clouded.
“You do not wish to remain longer, signore?”
“Can’t stand it, Gustavo; it’s too infernally restful.”
Poor Gustavo saw a munificent shower of tips vanishing into nothing. His face was rueful but his manner was undiminishingly polite.
“Si, signore, sank you. When shall you wish ze omnibus?”
“Tomorrow morning for the first boat.”
Gustavo bowed to the inevitable; and the young man passed on. He paused half way across the court-yard.
“What time does the first boat leave?”
“At half past five, signore.”
“Er—no—I’ll take the second.”
“Si, signore. At half-past ten.”
CHAPTER III
It was close upon ten when Jerymn Hilliard Jr., equipped for travel in proper blue serge, appeared in the doorway of the Hotel du Lac. He looked at his watch and discovered that he still had twenty minutes before the omnibus meeting the second boat was due. He strolled across the court-yard, paused for a moment to tease the parrot, and sauntered on to his favorite seat in the summer house. He had barely established himself with a cigarette when who should appear in the gateway but Miss Constance Wilder of Villa Rosa and a middle-aged man—at a glance the Signor Papa. Jerymn Hilliard’s heart doubled its beat. Why, he asked himself excitedly, why had they come?
The Signor Papa closed his green umbrella, and having dropped into a chair—obligingly near the summer house—took off his hat and fanned himself. He had a tendency toward being stout and felt the heat. The girl, meanwhile, crossed the court and jangled the bell; she waited two—three—minutes, then she pulled the rope again.
“Gustavo! Oh, Gustavo!”
The bell might have been rung by any-one—the fisherman, the omnibus-driver, Suor Celestina from the convent asking her everlasting alms—and Gustavo took his time. But the voice was unmistakable; he waited only to throw a clean napkin over his arm before hurrying to answer.
“Buon giorno, signorina! Good morning, signore. It is beautiful wea-thir, but warm. Già, it is warm.”
He bowed and smiled and rubbed his hands together. His moustaches, fairly bristling with good will, turned up in a half circle until they caressed his nose on either side. He bustled about placing table and chairs, and recklessly dusting them with the clean napkin. The signorina laid her fluffy white parasol on one chair and seated herself on another, her profile turned to the summer house. Gustavo hovered over them, awaiting their pleasure, the genius itself of respectful devotion. It was Constance who gave the order—she, it might be noticed, gave most of the orders that were given in her vicinity. She framed it in English out of deference to Gustavo’s pride in his knowledge of the language.
“A glass of vino santo for the Signore and limonata for me. I wish to put the sugar in myself, the last time you mixed it, Gustavo, it was all sugar and no lemon. And bring a bowl of cracked ice—fino—fino—and some pine nut cakes if you are sure they are
