"The Signorino will take coffee?" old Marietta asked, as she

set the fruit before him.

Peter deliberated for a moment; then burned his ships.

"Yes," he answered.

"But in the garden, perhaps?" the little brown old woman

suggested, with a persuasive flourish.

"No," he corrected her, gently smiling, and shaking his head,

"not perhaps--certainly."

Her small, sharp old black Italian eyes twinkled, responsive.

"The Signorino will find a rustic table, under the big

willow-tree, at the water's edge," she informed him, with a good

deal of gesture. "Shall I serve it there?"

"Where you will. I leave myself entirely in your hands," he

said.

So he sat by the rustic table, on a rustic bench, under the

willow, sipped his coffee, smoked his cigarette, and gazed in

contemplation at the view.

Of its kind, it was rather a striking view.

In the immediate foreground--at his feet, indeed--there was the

river, the narrow Aco, peacock-green, a dark file of poplars on

either bank, rushing pell-mell away from the quiet waters of

the lake. Then, just across the river, at his left, stretched

the smooth lawns of the park of Ventirose, with glimpses of

the many-pinnacled castle through the trees; and, beyond,

undulating country, flourishing, friendly, a perspective of

vineyards, cornfields, groves, and gardens, pointed by

numberless white villas. At his right loomed the gaunt mass

of the Gnisi, with its black forests, its bare crags, its

foaming ascade, and the crenelated range of the Cornobastone;

and finally, climax and cynosure, at the valley's end,

Monte Sfiorito, its three snow-covered summits almost

insubstantial-seeming, floating forms of luminous pink vapour,

in the evening sunshine, against the intense blue of the sky.

A familiar verse had come into Peter's mind, and kept running

there obstinately.

"Really," he said to himself, "feature for feature, down to the

very 'cataract leaping in glory,' the scene might have been got

up, apres coup, to illustrate it." And he began to repeat the

beautiful hackneyed words, under his breath . . . .

But about midway of the third line he was interrupted.




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