But you can't imagine how I detest that vulgar use of 'pen' for 'write'--as if literature were a kind of pig. However, it's perhaps no worse than the use of Asti for champagne. One should n't be too fastidious. I must really try to think of some method of telling her in Spanish.” Marietta went to fetch the Asti. XXIII When Peter rose next morning, he pulled a grimace at the departed night. “You are a detected cheat,” he cried, “an unmasked impostor. You live upon your reputation as a counsellor--'tis the only reason why we bear with you. La nuit porte conseil! Yet what counsel have you brought to me?--and I at the pass where my need is uttermost. Shall I go to her this afternoon, and unburden my soul--or shall I not? You have left me where you found me--in the same fine, free, and liberal state of vacillation. Discredited oracle!” He was standing before his dressing-table, brushing his hair. The image in the glass frowned back at him. Then something struck him. “At all events, we'll go this morning to Spiaggia, and have our hair cut,” he resolved. So he walked to the village, and caught the ten o'clock omnibus for Spiaggia. And after he had had his hair cut, he went to the Hotel de Russie, and lunched in the garden. And after luncheon, of course, he entered the grounds of the Casino, and strolled backwards and forwards, one of a merry procession, on the terrace by the lakeside. The gay toilets of the women, their bright-coloured hats and sunshades, made the terrace look like a great bank of monstrous moving flowers. The band played brisk accompaniments to the steady babble of voices, Italian, English, German. The pure air was shot with alien scents--the women's perfumery, the men's cigarette-smoke. The marvellous blue waters crisped in the breeze, and sparkled in the sun; and the smooth snows of Monte Sfiorito loomed so near, one felt one could almost put out one's stick and scratch one's name upon them.... And here, as luck would have it, Peter came face to face with Mrs. O'Donovan Florence. “How do you do?” said she, offering her hand. “How do you do?” said he. “It's a fine day,” said she. “Very,” said he. “Shall I make you a confidence?” she asked. “Do,” he answered. “Are you sure I can trust you?” She scanned his face dubiously. “Try it and see,” he urged. “Well, then, if you must know, I was thirsting to take a table and call for coffee; but having no man at hand to chaperon me, I dared not.” “Je vous en prie,” cried Peter, with a gesture of gallantry; and he led her to one of the round marble tables. “Due caffe,” he said to the brilliant creature (chains, buckles, ear-rings, of silver filigree, and head-dress and apron of flame-red silk) who came to learn their pleasure. “Softly, softly,” put in Mrs. O'Donovan Florence. “Not a drop of coffee for me. An orange-sherbet, if you please. Coffee was a figure of speech--a generic term for light refreshments.” Peter laughed, and amended his order.