A slight pause followed, the young man waiting deferentially for her to take the lead. 'You find Valedolmo interesting?' she inquired. 'Interesting!' His tone was enthusiastic. 'Aside from the prince's garden, which contains a cedar of Lebanon and an india-rubber plant from South America, there is the Luini in the chapel of San Bartolomeo, and the statue of Garibaldi in the piazza. And then----' he waved his hand toward the lake, 'there is always the view.' 'Yes,' she agreed, 'one can always look at the view.' Her eyes wandered to the lake, and across the lake to Monte Maggiore with clouds drifting about its peak. And while she obligingly studied the mountain, he studied the effect of the pink 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.'