nk gown and the rose-bud hat.
She turned back suddenly and caught him; it was a disconcerting habit of
Constance's. He politely looked away, and she--with frank
interest--studied him. He was bareheaded and dressed in white flannels;
they were very becoming, she noted critically, and yet--they needed just
a touch of colour; a red sash, for example, and earrings.

'The guests of the Hotel du Lac,' she remarked, 'have a beautiful garden
of their own. Just the mere pleasure of strolling about in it ought to
keep them contented with Valedolmo.'

'Not necessarily,' he objected. 'Think of the Garden of Eden--the most
beautiful garden there has ever been, if report speaks true--and yet the
mere pleasure of strolling about didn't keep Adam contented. One gets
lonely, you know.'

'Are you the only guest?'

'Oh, no, there are four of us, but we're not very companionable; there's
such a discrepancy in languages.'

'And you don't speak Italian?'

He shook his head.

'Only English and'--he glanced at the book in her hand--'French
indifferently well.'

'I saw some one the other day who spoke Magyar--that is a beautiful
language.'

'Yes?' he returned with polite indifference. 'I don't remember ever to
have heard it.'

She laughed and glanced about. Her eyes lighted on the arbour hung with
grape-vines and wistaria, where, far at the other end, Gustavo's figure
was visible lounging in the yellow stucco doorway. The sight appeared to
recall an errand to her mind. She glanced down at a pink wicker-basket
which hung on her arm, and gathered up her skirts with a movement of
departure.

The young man hastily picked up the conversation.

'It _is_ a jolly old garden,' he affirmed. 'And there's something
pathetic about its appearing on souvenir post cards as a mere adjunct to
a blue and yellow hotel.'

She nodded sympathetically.

'Built for romance and abandoned to tourists--German tourists at that!'

'Oh, not entirely--we've a Russian countess just now.'

'A Russian countess?' Constance turned toward him with an air of
reawakened interest. 'Is she as young and beautiful and fascinating and
wicked as they always are in novels?'

'Oh, dear no! Seventy, if she's a day. A nice grandmotherly old soul who
smokes cigarettes.'

'Ah!' Constance smiled; there was even a trace of relief in her manner as
she nodded to the young man and turned away. His face reflected his
disappointment; he plainly wished to detain her, but could t