Jerry | Page 5

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 grey 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 of 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