Part 11 (1/2)

She turned back suddenly and caught him; it was a disconcerting habit of Constance's. He politely looked away, and she--with frank interest--studied him. He was bareheaded and dressed in white flannels; they were very becoming, she noted critically, and yet--they needed just a touch of colour; a red sash, for example, and earrings.

'The guests of the Hotel du Lac,' she remarked, 'have a beautiful garden of their own. Just the mere pleasure of strolling about in it ought to keep them contented with Valedolmo.'

'Not necessarily,' he objected. 'Think of the Garden of Eden--the most beautiful garden there has ever been, if report speaks true--and yet the mere pleasure of strolling about didn't keep Adam contented. One gets lonely, you know.'

'Are you the only guest?'

'Oh, no, there are four of us, but we're not very companionable; there's such a discrepancy in languages.'

'And you don't speak Italian?'

He shook his head.

'Only English and'--he glanced at the book in her hand--'French indifferently well.'

'I saw some one the other day who spoke Magyar--that is a beautiful language.'

'Yes?' he returned with polite indifference. 'I don't remember ever to have heard it.'

She laughed and glanced about. Her eyes lighted on the arbour hung with grape-vines and wistaria, where, far at the other end, Gustavo's figure was visible lounging in the yellow stucco doorway. The sight appeared to recall an errand to her mind. She glanced down at a pink wicker-basket which hung on her arm, and gathered up her skirts with a movement of departure.

The young man hastily picked up the conversation.

'It _is_ a jolly old garden,' he affirmed. 'And there's something pathetic about its appearing on souvenir post cards as a mere adjunct to a blue and yellow hotel.'

She nodded sympathetically.

'Built for romance and abandoned to tourists--German tourists at that!'

'Oh, not entirely--we've a Russian countess just now.'

'A Russian countess?' Constance turned toward him with an air of reawakened interest. 'Is she as young and beautiful and fascinating and wicked as they always are in novels?'

'Oh, dear no! Seventy, if she's a day. A nice grandmotherly old soul who smokes cigarettes.'

'Ah!' Constance smiled; there was even a trace of relief in her manner as she nodded to the young man and turned away. His face reflected his disappointment; he plainly wished to detain her, but could think of no expedient. The spotted calf came to his rescue. The calf had been watching them from the first, very much interested in the visitor; and now, as she approached his tree, he stretched out his neck as far as the tether permitted and sniffed insistently. She paused and patted him on the head. The calf acknowledged the caress with a grateful _moo_; there was a plaintive light in his liquid eyes.

'Poor thing--he's lonely!' She turned to the young man and spoke with an accent of reproach. 'The four guests of the Hotel du Lac don't show him enough attention.'

The young man shrugged.

'We're tired of calves. It's only a matter of a day or so before he'll be breaded and fried and served Milanese fas.h.i.+on with a sauce of tomato and garlic.'

Constance shook her head sympathetically; though whether her sympathy was for the calf or the partakers of table d'hote was not quite clear.

'I know,' she agreed. 'I've been a guest at the Hotel du Lac myself--it's a tragedy to be born a calf in Italy!'

She nodded and turned; it was evident this time that she was really going. He took a hasty step forward.