bundles, dumped them on the kitchen floor, and waited respectfully, hat in hand, while Mr. Wilder searched his pockets for change. He counted out four lire and added a note. Tony pocketed the lire and returned the note, while Mr. Wilder stared his astonishment.
"Good-bye, Tony," Constance smiled as he turned away.
"Good-bye, signorina." There was a note of finality in his voice.
"Well!" Mr. Wilder ejaculated. "That is the first--" "Italian" he started to say, but he caught the word before it was out "--donkey-driver I ever saw refuse money."
Lieutenant di Ferara raised his shoulders.
" Machè ! The fellow is too honest; you do well to watch him." There was a world of disgust in his tone.
Constance glanced after the retreating figure and laughed.
"Tony!" she called.
He kept on; she raised her voice.
"Mr. Yamhankeesh."
He paused.
"You call, signorina?"
"Be sure and be here by half past six on Friday morning; we must start early."
"Sank you, signorina. Good-night."
"Good-night, Tony."
CHAPTER VIII
The Hotel du Lac may be approached in two ways. The ordinary, obvious way, which incoming tourists of necessity choose, is by the highroad and the gate. But the romantic way is by water. One sees only the garden then and the garden is the distinguished feature of the place; it was planned long before the hotel was built to adorn a marquis's pleasure house. There are grottos, arbors, fountains, a winding stream; and, stretching the length of the water front, a deep cool grove of interlaced plane trees. At the end of the grove, half a dozen broad stone steps dip down to a tiny harbor which is carpeted on the surface with lily pads. The steps are worn by the lapping waves of fifty years, and are grown over with slippery, slimy water weeds.
The world was just stirring from its afternoon siesta, when the Farfalla dropped her yellow sails and floated into the shady little harbor. Giuseppe prodded and pushed along the fern-grown banks until the keel jolted against the water steps. He sprang ashore and steadied the boat while Constance alighted. She slipped on the mossy step--almost went under--and righted herself with a laugh that rang gaily through the grove.
She came up the steps still smiling, shook out her fluffy pink skirts, straightened her rose-trimmed hat, and glanced reconnoiteringly about the grove. One might reasonably expect, attacking the hotel as it were from the flank, to capture unawares any stray guest. But aside from a chaffinch or so and a brown-and-white spotted calf tied to a tree, the grove was empty--blatantly empty. There was a shade of disappointment in Constance's glance. One naturally does not like to waste one's best embroidered gown on a spotted calf.
Then her eye suddenly brightened as it lighted on a vivid splash of yellow under a tree. She crossed over and picked it up--a paper covered French novel; the title was Bijou , the author was Gyp. She turned to the first page. Any reasonably careful person might be expected to write his name in the front of a book--particularly a French book--before abandoning it to the mercies of a foreign hotel. But the several fly leaves were immaculately innocent of all sign of ownership.
So intent was she upon this examination, that she did not hear footsteps approaching down the long arbor that led from the house; so intent was the young man upon a frowning scrutiny of the path before him, that he did not see Constance until he had passed from the arbor into the grove. Then simultaneously they raised their heads and looked at each other. For a startled second they stared--rather guiltily--both with the air of having been caught. Constance recovered her poise first; she nodded--a nod which contained not the slightest hint of recognition--and laughed.
"Oh!" she said. "I suppose this is your book? And I am afraid you have caught me red-handed. You must excuse me for looking at it, but usually at this season only German Alpine-climbers stop at the Hotel du Lac,
"Good-bye, Tony," Constance smiled as he turned away.
"Good-bye, signorina." There was a note of finality in his voice.
"Well!" Mr. Wilder ejaculated. "That is the first--" "Italian" he started to say, but he caught the word before it was out "--donkey-driver I ever saw refuse money."
Lieutenant di Ferara raised his shoulders.
" Machè ! The fellow is too honest; you do well to watch him." There was a world of disgust in his tone.
Constance glanced after the retreating figure and laughed.
"Tony!" she called.
He kept on; she raised her voice.
"Mr. Yamhankeesh."
He paused.
"You call, signorina?"
"Be sure and be here by half past six on Friday morning; we must start early."
"Sank you, signorina. Good-night."
"Good-night, Tony."
CHAPTER VIII
The Hotel du Lac may be approached in two ways. The ordinary, obvious way, which incoming tourists of necessity choose, is by the highroad and the gate. But the romantic way is by water. One sees only the garden then and the garden is the distinguished feature of the place; it was planned long before the hotel was built to adorn a marquis's pleasure house. There are grottos, arbors, fountains, a winding stream; and, stretching the length of the water front, a deep cool grove of interlaced plane trees. At the end of the grove, half a dozen broad stone steps dip down to a tiny harbor which is carpeted on the surface with lily pads. The steps are worn by the lapping waves of fifty years, and are grown over with slippery, slimy water weeds.
The world was just stirring from its afternoon siesta, when the Farfalla dropped her yellow sails and floated into the shady little harbor. Giuseppe prodded and pushed along the fern-grown banks until the keel jolted against the water steps. He sprang ashore and steadied the boat while Constance alighted. She slipped on the mossy step--almost went under--and righted herself with a laugh that rang gaily through the grove.
She came up the steps still smiling, shook out her fluffy pink skirts, straightened her rose-trimmed hat, and glanced reconnoiteringly about the grove. One might reasonably expect, attacking the hotel as it were from the flank, to capture unawares any stray guest. But aside from a chaffinch or so and a brown-and-white spotted calf tied to a tree, the grove was empty--blatantly empty. There was a shade of disappointment in Constance's glance. One naturally does not like to waste one's best embroidered gown on a spotted calf.
Then her eye suddenly brightened as it lighted on a vivid splash of yellow under a tree. She crossed over and picked it up--a paper covered French novel; the title was Bijou , the author was Gyp. She turned to the first page. Any reasonably careful person might be expected to write his name in the front of a book--particularly a French book--before abandoning it to the mercies of a foreign hotel. But the several fly leaves were immaculately innocent of all sign of ownership.
So intent was she upon this examination, that she did not hear footsteps approaching down the long arbor that led from the house; so intent was the young man upon a frowning scrutiny of the path before him, that he did not see Constance until he had passed from the arbor into the grove. Then simultaneously they raised their heads and looked at each other. For a startled second they stared--rather guiltily--both with the air of having been caught. Constance recovered her poise first; she nodded--a nod which contained not the slightest hint of recognition--and laughed.
"Oh!" she said. "I suppose this is your book? And I am afraid you have caught me red-handed. You must excuse me for looking at it, but usually at this season only German Alpine-climbers stop at the Hotel du Lac,
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