"Oh picerella del vieni al'mare Nella barchetta veletto di fiore La biancha prora somiglia al'altare Tutte le stelle favellan d'amor," and so forth. The performer was evidently singing "under her voice," but the effect was charming. He stood with his hand on the curtain, listening--and with a pleasure that astonished him. The song came to an end with a chord in which all the strings twanged their best. Then there was silence--then a sigh, and the sound of light moving feet on the gravel. He threw back the curtain and leaned out of the window. "Here!" he called to the figure that moved slowly towards the gate. She turned quickly, and came back two steps. She wore the dress of a Contadina, a very smart dress indeed, and her hands looked small and white. "Won't you sing again?" he asked. She hesitated, then struck a chord or two and began another of those little tuneful Italian songs, all stars and flowers and hearts of gold. And again he listened with a quiet pleasure. "I should like to hear her voice at its full strength," he thought--and now it was time to give the vagrant a few coppers, and, shutting the window, to leave her to go on to the next front garden. Never had any act seemed so impossible. He had watched her through the singing of this last song, and he had grown aware of the beauty of her face's oval--of the fine poise of her head--and of the grace of hands and arms. "Aren't you tired?" he said. "Wouldn't you like to sit down and rest? There is a seat in the garden at the side of the house." Again she hesitated. Then she turned towards the quarter indicated and disappeared round the laurel bushes. He was alone in the house--his people and the servants were in the country; the woman who came to "do for him" had left for the night. He went into the dining-room, dark with mahogany and damask, found wine and cake in the sideboard cupboard, put them on a tray, and took them out through the garden door and round to the corner where, almost sheltered by laburnums and hawthorns from the view of the people next door, the singer and her guitar rested on the iron seat. "I have brought you some wine--will you have it?" Again that strange hesitation--then quite suddenly the girl put her hands up to her face and began to cry. "Here--I say, you know--don't--" he said. "Oh, Lord! This is awful. I hardly know a word of Italian, and apparently she has no English. Here, signorina, ecco, prendi--vino--gatto--No, gatto's a cat. I was thinking of French. Oh, Lord!" The Contadina had pulled out a very small handkerchief, and was drying her eyes with it. She rose. "No--don't go," he said eagerly. "I can see you are tired out. Sai fatiguee non e vero? Io non parlate Italiano, sed vino habet, et cake ante vous partez." She looked at him and spoke for the first time.