The finding of a suitable villa for Sophy proved to be quite an undertaking. Three days did the kindly Marchesa devote to helping her in this quest. And as they chugged about the Lake in the little Fretta, Sophy grew more and more impressed with the hideousness of the houses that man had thrust upon this lovely nature. She had dreamed of columns—white columns rising from groves of lemon and orange, reflected in pale blue water. The reality was a noticeable lack of these trees and a collection of ugly boxes, now bristling with ginger-bread towers, gilded, pricked out, machicolated, decorated in red and blue, now roofed and verandahed in clumsy imitation of Swiss chalets, the stucco walls painted to represent yellow wood. Sometimes these houses would be ornamented with gaudy flowers like a frieze of chintz; sometimes they would wriggle all over with the results of modern graffito work. Only a few villas, here and there, were simple and attractive in architecture—and these were always old buildings, not to be rented.

Sophy was in despair. She thought she had better remain at the Hotel Bellevue or slip over to the Eden Hotel in Pallanza. But the Marchesa never gave up an idea once she had determined to accomplish it. So, finally, they found in the "Villa Bianca," near Ghiffa, what even Sophy admitted was the very thing.

It took her two weeks to get settled—to have the walls whitewashed, and to cover the frightful furniture with slips of chintz. She was so busy over this that she had no time to feel lonely, though Amaldi and his mother came to see her only once during that period. The letters from Anne Harding were very encouraging. Bobby looked like a bit of brown bisque and had already gained in weight. It was wonderful after the day's bustle to sit on the broad, flagged terrace that overlooked the Lake. Two huge cypresses towered on either side. At the foot of the priestly trees two oleanders in full bloom spread their pinky skirts, like court ladies kneeling in perfumed humility before stern spiritual directors. Their heady fragrance streamed through the night, stirring vague desires and regrets. The stars swung low, plaques of quick-gold. The grim Stone of Iron across the lake had changed to tourmaline—reddish at one end, dusky violet at the other, as the glow from the lime-kiln at Chaldee lit it to the east and the soft starlight to the west. Yes, this, too, was Italy. And there came to her a strange, elusive sense as of heart-break for sorrows long forgotten when a nightingale began its desperate, sweet cry of passion forever unassuaged. She had thought that in England she had first heard the nightingale. It was not so. This was the true flame of song; that had been but the flame's shadow. In ecstatic staves the tiny soul flung out its supernal melody, as though weaving a poem in music—sapphics of sound—stanzas ending each time with a new melodic phrase—the cry of a celestial Improvisatrice, singing against the morning stars. It brought the sense of infinity—as though from everlasting to everlasting that marvellous ritornello might go pealing on....

One morning Luigi, the little Milanese butler, brought her Amaldi's card.

She ran down to greet him, in her white linen skirt and blouse, forgetting to take out the oleander flower that Bobby had stuck over her ear as they played together that morning on the terrace. The pink flower with its dark, spiky leaves, thus nestled against her shaded hair, gave her a careless, festival look that was delightfully new to Amaldi. It was hard to keep his eyes steady under the look of frank pleasure with which she met him. He told her that his mother had sent the Fretta to fetch her to Le Vigne for luncheon if she cared to come.

"I should love to!" she cried. "I'll just get a hat and a sunshade. I won't keep you a minute."

"My mother begged that you would bring Bobby if you wished to," said Amaldi as she was rushing off. But she called back over her shoulder:

"Thanks! No.... I'm afraid he might get tired and fret."

The morning was wonderful—too bright and unveiled for an artist's pleasure, but not for that of mere human beings with youth and joy in their blood. The Tramontana was still blowing. The whole lake was a-flutter with it. The Fretta sped onward between jets of foam. Peder, the young meccanico, grinned with the wavelets, as an occasional spray-shower flew past him and sprinkled the sciori further aft.

The Marchesa was waiting for them on the terrace of Le Vigne. She gave Sophy a little nosegay of white oleander and stephanotis, and kissed her cheek in greeting. She looked very imposing in her straight robe of embroidered white muslin.

Sophy was charmed with the outer view of Le Vigne. Its mellow, white walls, so severely simple, and the fluted edge of its red-tiled roof gave her a relieved pleasure after her own orange-brown "chalet." The entrance hall was big and plain, with mosaic under foot, and great beams overhead, painted in between like the wings of night-moths.

They lunched on the western terrace under a pergola of star-jessamine. Sophy felt strangely and rather unquietly happy—as if something were going to happen. And she was very hungry. It was such fun to eat from a plate dappled with little sun-flecks. Every one had silvery reflections from the white tablecloth playing over their faces. It made Amaldi look pale and strange somehow.

Sophy thought that after luncheon she would be taken to see the farm and gardens, but the Marchesa said that she must not go out into the sun directly after eating. Instead, they went into the big, cool Salotto, and the Marchesa taught her a game of double patience. While they were doing this, Amaldi strolled in with his pipe. It seemed odd to Sophy to see him with a pipe. It didn't suit him somehow.

The Marchesa sent Amaldi off to order the pony-carriage. She was going to drive Sophy over the Tenuta herself. As he went, she called after him:

"Is your study in ordine? I want to show Mrs. Chesney the view from the Tower before we start."

"I'll send Peder up to report," said Amaldi.

His "study" was in the top of the square tower. It was lined with books and maps, and pierced by four windows. A heavy quattro cento table covered with papers ran across one side, and on the other was a grand piano. Sophy's eyes went from this to the papers on the table, many of which were manuscript music.

"I didn't know that the Marchese composed music," she said, "though I've heard of course what a wonderful musician he is."

"Marco is even greater as a composer than as a musician," replied his mother, pride in her voice. "The world will hear of him some day. But he's such a student of other things also, that it rather hampers him, I think. Young as he is, he's already one of the authorities on the history of the Risorgimento—and no one in Italy knows more than he about our architecture and art. He has predicted a rising of Iconoclasts within a few years—haters of beauty—so he's preparing for them, in his own way. He has very original ideas."

Then she broke off suddenly, extremely vexed at her own garrulity on this subject. It was certainly far from her wish to interest this eager-eyed girl in the attainments of Marco.

"Che imbecille!" she said within herself, as she led the way from the big table, where Sophy was gazing with respectful admiration at some beautiful architectural designs in aquarelle.

"Did the Marchese make those lovely drawings?" she asked, as she followed his mother to one of the great windows.

"Yes—he draws quite nicely, I believe," replied the Marchesa with some primness.

Sophy felt the change in her manner, but only thought that she had withdrawn her interest from Amaldi's work to the marvellous view that spread below them—all the Lombard plain out-rolled like the fecund floor of a vast temple to Ceres, whose roof was the blue dome above. And in the apex of this immense Rotonda the sun's disk seemed the opening into further heavens of gold.

As they re-crossed the room on their way back, Sophy's attention was caught by the photograph of a blond youth, strikingly like the Marchesa.

"Oh—is that your other son, Marchesa?" she asked. "What a handsome boy and so like you!"

"Grazie mille," said the Marchesa, laughing. "Yes, that is Nano—my younger son Giovanni. He is a good-looking baloss (scamp) as you so kindly observed, my dear. Much better looking than Marco—but Marco is our strong one. He has more character in his little finger than that lovable imp."

Again she broke off, biting her lip severely this time. What ailed her? It was like some perverse obsession—this constant harping of hers on Marco's fine qualities.

"Come, my dear," she said. "If we dawdle, the teams will be stabled—I want you to see our white oxen in the late sunlight."

Sophy never forgot her first sight of the big white oxen, four to a plough, sturdily plodding against the westering sun. Their white hides in shadow were pearly blue; where the sunlight glanced along their backs they seemed outlined with silver fire. Their great horns gleamed like agate. Their ears, suffused with the sun, showed a lining of dusk-rose. Semi-divine creatures they looked as they moved with calm, majestic patience against the background of earth and sky—gleaming offspring of Europa's Olympian Bull, by Hathor, goddess-cow of Egypt....

It was nearly six o'clock when Carletto reported that the Fretta was awaiting them.

The Marchesa had persuaded Sophy to stop for tea and now she made her accept the loan of a warm cloak. It could be very chilly on the Lake at this hour, she said, even in midsummer. Carletto had put in the launch a basket of delicate golden plums called "nespole del Giappone" which cannot be exported. The Marchesa came with them to the darsena. The Fretta lay quaint as an orchid in the shadow, all red cushions and glowing fruit, with the Italian flag at her stern, and the pennon of the Amaldi at her prow.

"Where is Peder?" asked the Marchesa rather sharply, as Amaldi got in and held out his hand to assist Sophy. He looked up at his mother.

"I promised Peder last week that he should go to see his people at Belgirate this afternoon," he said composedly. "I lent him the dinghey after luncheon. But I am an excellent meccanico. Mrs. Chesney need not feel nervous."

What was there to say? The Marchesa at least could think of nothing.

She stood in silence, while Marco pushed off with one of the oars kept in the launch in case of the engine's failing.

Sophy looked up, smiling. She waved her hand, kissed it to the Marchesa as the Fretta slowly glided out of the darsena into the open lake.

"Thanks! A thousand thanks!" she called back, her voice sounding strangely clear and sweet over the water. "I shall never forget my first day at Le Vigne."

"What absurdly innocent eyes she has," thought the Marchesa irritably. "A married woman has no business having such innocent eyes as all that!"

But she waved her hand in reply, and called, "Buon Viaggio!"

Then she went back to the terrace, and sat watching the Fretta as long as it was in sight. The soft afterglow engulfed it at last. They were there, in the lovely twilight alone together—those two—who of all the world should be farthest apart. The Marchesa felt very angry with Marco, with herself, with poor Sophy, with Fate. She did not know which she was most angry with—— Yes, perhaps with Marco....