Jerry Junior | Page 5

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.
[Illustration: "Giuseppe still made a feint of preoccupation"]
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