Jerry Junior | Page 4

"It is a quarter of a hour beyond ze Porta Sant' Antonio. If ze gate is

shut you ring at ze bell and Giuseppe will open. But ze road is ver' hot
and ver' dusty. It is more cooler to take ze paf by ze lake. Straight to ze
left for ten minutes and step over ze wall; it is broken in zat place and
quite easy."
"Thank you, that is a wise suggestion; I shall step over the wall by all
means." He jumped to his feet and looked about for his hat. "You turn
to the left and straight ahead for ten minutes? Good-bye then till dinner.
I go in search of the Signorina Costantina who is beautiful as the angels
in Paradise, and who lives in a rose-colored villa set in a cypress grove
on the shores of Lake Garda--not a bad setting for romance, is it,
Gustavo?--Dinner, I believe, is at seven o'clock?"
"Si, signore, at seven; and would you like veal cooked Milanese
fashion?"
"Nothing would please me more. We have only had veal Milanese
fashion five times since I came."
He waved his hand jauntily and strolled whistling down the arbor that
led to the lake. Gustavo looked after him and shook his head. Then he
took out the two-lire piece and rang it on the table. The metal rang true.
He shrugged his shoulders and turned back indoors to order the veal.
CHAPTER II
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.
[Illustration: "The fourth girl, with gray eyes and yellow-brown hair,
was sitting at ease on the balustrade"]
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