he on the other.

If Landlord Lenz knew of these meetings he did not interfere; perhaps
he was frightened of Pietro's stiletto, or perhaps he feared his
daughter's tongue; nevertheless, the stars in their courses were
fighting for the old man. Tina was naturally of a changeable
disposition, and now that all opposition had vanished, she began to
lose interest in Pietro. He could talk of little else than horses, and
interesting as such conversation undoubtedly is, it palls upon a girl
of eighteen leaning over a stone wall in the golden evening light that
hovers above Como. There are other subjects, but that is neither here
nor there, as Pietro did not recognise the fact, and, unfortunately for
him, there happened to come along a member of the great army of the
unemployed who did.

He came that way just in the nick of time, and proud as old Lenz was of
his _pension_ and its situation, it was not the unrivalled
prospect (as stated in the hotel advertisements) that stopped him. It
was the sight of a most lovely girl leaning over the stone wall at the
foot of the garden, gazing down at the lake and singing softly to
herself.

"By Jove!" said young Standish, "she looks as if she were waiting for
her lover." Which, indeed, was exactly what Tina was doing, and it
augured ill for the missing man that she was not the least impatient
at his delay.

"The missing lover is a defect in the landscape which ought to be
supplied," murmured young Standish as he unslung his knapsack, which,
like that of the late John Brown, was strapped upon his back. He
entered the _pension_ and inquired the rates. Old Lenz took one
glance at the knickerbockers, and at once asked twice as much as he
would have charged a native. Standish agreed to the terms with that
financial recklessness characteristic of his island, and the old man
regretted he had not asked a third more.

"But never mind," he said to himself as the newly arrived guest
disappeared to his room, "I shall make it up on the extras."

With deep regret it must be here admitted that young Standish was an
artist. Artists are met with so often in fiction that it is a matter of
genuine grief to have to deal with one in a narrative of fact, but it
must be remembered that artists flock as naturally to the lake of Como
as stock-brokers to the Exchange, and in setting down an actual
statement of occurrences in that locality the unfortunate writer finds
himself confronted with artists at every