"It's one reason," Constance agreed imperturbably, "but, as I say, I don't wish to burn the skin off my nose, because that is unbecoming too. You are ungrateful, Dad," she added as she helped herself to honey with a liberal hand, "I invited them solely on your account because you like to hear them talk English. Have the donkeys come?" "The donkeys are at the back door nibbling the buds off the rose-bushes." "And the driver?" "Is sitting on the kitchen doorstep drinking coffee and smiling over the top of his cup at Elizabetta. There are two of him." "Two! I only ordered one." "One is the official driver and the other is a boy whom he has brought along to do the work." Constance eyed her father sharply. There was something at once guilty and triumphant about his expression. "What is it, Dad?" she inquired sternly. "I suppose he has not got a sash and earrings." "On the contrary, he has." "Really? How clever of Gustavo! I hope," she added anxiously, "that he talks good Italian?" "I don't know about his Italian, but he talks uncommonly good English." "English!" There was reproach, disgust, disillusionment, in her tone. "Not really, father?" "Yes, really and truly--almost as well as I do. He has lived in New York and he speaks English like a dream--real English--not the Gustavo--Lieutenant di Ferara kind. I can understand what he says." "How simply horrible!" "Very convenient, I should say." [Illustration: Beppo and the donkeys] "If there's anything I detest, it's an Americanized Italian--and here in Valedolmo of all places, where you have a right to demand something unique and romantic and picturesque and real. It's too bad of Gustavo! I shall never place any faith in his judgment again. You may talk English to the man if you like; I shall address him in nothing but Italian." As they rose from the table she suggested pessimistically, "Let's go and look at the donkeys--I suppose they'll be horrid, scraggly, knock-kneed little beasts." They turned out however to be unusually attractive, as donkeys go, and they were innocently engaged in nibbling, not rose-leaves but grass, under the tutelage of a barefoot boy. Constance patted their shaggy mouse-colored noses, made the acquaintance of the boy, whose name was Beppo, and looked about for the driver proper. He rose and bowed as she approached. His appearance was even more violently spectacular than she had ordered; Gustavo had given good measure.