the terrace of villa rosa juts out into the lake, bordered on three sides by a stone parapet, and shaded above by a yellow-ochre awning. masses of oleanders hang over the wall and drop pink petals into the blue waters below. as a study in color the terrace is perfect, but, like the court-yard of the hotel du lac, decidedly too hot for mid-afternoon. to the right of the terrace, however, is a shady garden set in alleys of cypress trees, and separated from the lake by a strip of beach and a low balustrade. there could be no better resting place for a warm afternoon.

it was close upon four—five minutes past to be accurate—and the usual afternoon quiet that enveloped the garden had fled before the garrulous advent of four girls. three of them, with black eyes and blacker hair, were kneeling on the beach thumping and scrubbing a pile of linen. in spite of their chatter they were working busily, and the grass beyond the water-wall was already white with bleaching sheets, while a lace trimmed petticoat fluttered from a near-by oleander, and a row of silk stockings stretched the length of the parapet. the most undeductive observer would have guessed by this time that the pink villa, visible through the trees, contained no such modern conveniences as stationary tubs.

the fourth girl, with gray eyes and yellow-brown hair, was sitting at ease on the balustrade, fanning herself with a wide brimmed hat and dangling her feet, clad in white tennis shoes, over the edge. she wore a suit of white linen cut sailor fashion, low at the throat and with sleeves rolled to the elbows. she looked very cool and comfortable and free as she talked, with the utmost friendliness, to the three girls below. her italian, to an unaccustomed ear, was exactly as glib as theirs.

the washer-girls were dressed in the gayest of peasant clothes—green and scarlet petticoats, flowered kerchiefs, coral beads and flashing earrings; you would have to go far into the hills in these degenerate days before meeting their match on an italian highway. but the girl on the wall, who was actual if not titular ruler of the domain of villa rosa, possessed a keen eye for effect; and—she plausibly argued—since one must have washer-women about, why not, in the name of all that is beautiful, have them in harmony with tradition and the landscape? accordingly, she designed and purchased their costumes herself.

there drifted presently into sight from around the little promontory that hid the village, a blue and white boat with yellow lateen sails. she was propelled gondolier fashion, for the wind was a mere breath, by a picturesque youth in a suit of dark blue with white sash and flaring collar —the hand of the girl on the wall was here visible also.

the boat fluttering in toward shore, looked like a giant butterfly; and her name, emblazoned in gold on her prow, was, appropriately, the farfalla. earlier in the season, with a green hull and a dingy brown sail, she had been prosaically enough, the maria. but since the advent of the girl all this had been changed. the farfalla dropped her yellow wings with the air of a salute, and lighted at the foot of the water-steps under the terrace. the girl on the parapet leaned forward eagerly.

“did you get any mail, giuseppe?” she called.

“si, signorina.” he scrambled up the steps and presented a copy of the london times.

she received it with a shrug. clearly, she felt little interest in the london times. giuseppe took himself back to his boat and commenced fussing about its fittings, dusting the seats, plumping up the cushions, with an air of absorption which deceived nobody. the signorina watched him a moment with amused comprehension, then she called peremptorily:

“giuseppe, you know you must spade the garden border.”

poor giuseppe, in spite of his nautical costume, was man of all work. he glanced dismally toward the garden border which lay basking in the sunshine under the wall that divided villa rosa from the rest of the world. it contained every known flower which blossoms in july in the kingdom of italy from camellias and hydrangeas to heliotrope and wall flowers. its spading was a complicated business and it lay too far off to permit of conversation. giuseppe was not only a lazy, but also a social soul.

“signorina,” he suggested, “would you not like a sail?”

she shook her head. “there is not wind enough and it is too hot and too sunny.”

“but yes, there’s a wind, and cool—when you get out on the lake. i will put up the awning, signorina, the sun shall not touch you.”

she continued to shake her head and her eyes wandered suggestively to the hydrangeas, but giuseppe still made a feint of preoccupation. not being a cruel mistress, she dropped the subject, and turned back to her conversation with the washer-girls. they were discussing—a pleasant topic for a sultry summer afternoon—the probable content of paradise. the three girls were of the opinion that it was made up of warm sunshine and cool shade, of flowers and singing birds and sparkling waters, of blue skies and cloud-capped mountains—not unlike, it will be observed, the very scene which at the moment stretched before them. in so much they were all agreed, but there were several debatable points. whether the stones were made of gold, and whether the houses were not gold too, and, that being the case, whether it would not hurt your eyes to look at them. marietta declared, blasphemously, as the others thought, that she preferred a simple gray stone villa or at most one of pink stucco, to all the golden edifices that paradise contained.

it was by now fifteen minutes past four, and a spectator had arrived, though none of the five were aware of his presence. the spectator was standing on the wall above the garden border examining with appreciation the idyllic scene below him, and with most particular appreciation, the dainty white-clad person of the girl on the balustrade. he was wondering—anxiously—how he might make his presence known. for no very tangible reason he had suddenly become conscious that the matter would be easier if he carried in his pocket a letter of introduction. the purlieus of villa rosa in no wise resembled a desert island; and in the face of that very fluent italian, the suspicion was forcing itself upon him that after all, the mere fact of a common country was not a sufficient bond of union. he had definitely decided to withdraw, when the matter was taken from his hands.

the wall—as gustavo had pointed out—was broken; it was owing to this fact that he had been so easily able to climb it. now, as he stealthily turned, preparing to re-descend in the direction whence he had come, the loose stone beneath his foot slipped and he slipped with it. five startled pairs of eyes were turned in his direction. what they saw, was a young man in flannels suddenly throw up his arms, slide into an azalea bush, from this to the balustrade, and finally land on all fours on the narrow strip of beach, a shower of pink petals and crumbling masonry falling about him. a momentary silence followed; then the washer-girls, making sure that he was not injured, broke into a shrill chorus of laughter, while the farfalla rocked under impact of giuseppe’s mirth. the girl on the wall alone remained grave.

the young man picked himself up, restored his guide book to his pocket, and blushingly stepped forward, hat in hand, to make an apology. one knee bore a splash of mud, and his tumbled hair was sprinkled with azalea blossoms.

“i beg your pardon,” he stammered, “i didn’t mean to come so suddenly; i’m afraid i broke your wall.”

the girl dismissed the matter with a polite gesture.

“it was already broken,” and then she waited with an air of grave attention until he should state his errand.

“i—i came—” he paused and glanced about vaguely; he could not at the moment think of any adequate reason to account for his coming.

“yes?”

her eyes studied him with what appeared at once a cool and an amused scrutiny. he felt himself growing red beneath it.

“can i do anything for you?” she prompted with the kind desire of putting him at his ease.

“thank you—” he grasped at the first idea that presented itself. “i’m stopping at the hotel du lac and gustavo, you know, told me there was a villa somewhere around here that belongs to prince someone or other. if you ring at the gate and give the gardener two francs and a visiting card, he will let you walk around and look at the trees.”

“i see!” said the girl, “and so now you are looking for the gate?” her tone suggested that she suspected him of trying to avoid both it and the two francs. “prince sartorio-crevelli’s villa is about half a mile farther on.”

“ah, thank you,” he bowed a second time, and then added out of the desperate need of saying something, “there’s a cedar of lebanon in it and an india rubber plant from south america.”

“indeed!”

she continued to observe him with polite interest, though she made no move to carry on the conversation.

“you—are an american?” he asked at length.

“oh, yes,” she agreed easily. “gustavo knows that.”

he 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.”