As Constance emerged at the other end of the arbor, Gustavo, who had been nodding on the bench beside the door, sprang to his feet, consternation in his attitude.

“Signorina!” he stammered. “You come from ze garden?”

She nodded in her usual off-hand manner and handed him the basket.

“Eggs, Gustavo—two dozen if you can spare them. I am sorry always to be wanting so many, but—” she sighed, “eggs are so breakable!”

Gustavo rolled his eyes to heaven in silent thanksgiving. She had not, it was evident, run across the American, and the cat was still safely in the bag; but how much longer it could be kept there, the saints alone knew. He was feeling—very properly—guilty in regard to this latest escapade; but what can a defenceless waiter do in the hands of an impetuous young American whose pockets are stuffed with silver lire and five-franc notes?

“Two dozen? Certainly, signorina. Subitissimo!” He took the basket and hurried to the kitchen.

Constance occupied the interval with the polyglot parrot of the courtyard. The parrot, since she had last conversed with him, had acquired several new expressions in the English tongue. As Gustavo reappeared with the eggs, she confronted him sternly.

“Have you been teaching this bird English? I am surprised!”

“No, signorina. It was—it was—” Gustavo mopped his brow. “He jus’ pick it up.”

“I’m sorry that the Hotel du Lac has guests that use such language; it’s very shocking.”

“Si, signorina.”

“By the way, Gustavo, how does it happen that that young American man who left last week is still here?”

Gustavo nearly dropped the eggs.

“I just saw him in the garden with a book—I am sure it was the same young man. What is he doing all this time in Valedolmo?”

Gustavo’s eyes roved wildly until they lighted on the tennis court.

“He—he stay, signorina, to play lawn tennis wif me, but he go tomorrow.”

“Oh, he is going tomorrow?—What’s his name, Gustavo?”

She put the question indifferently while she stooped to pet a tortoise-shell cat that was curled asleep on the bench.

“His name?” Gustavo’s face cleared. “I get ze raygeester; you read heem yourself.”

He darted into the bureau and returned with a black book.

“Ecco, signorina!” spreading it on the table before her.

His alacrity should have aroused her suspicions; but she was too intent on the matter in hand. She turned the pages and paused at the week’s entries; Rudolph Ziegelmann und Frau, Berlin; and just beneath, in bold black letters that stretched from margin to margin, Abraham Lincoln, U. S. A.

Gustavo hovered above anxiously watching her face; he had been told that this would make everything right, that Abraham Lincoln was an exceedingly respectable name. Constance’s expression did not change. She looked at the writing for fully three minutes, then she opened her purse and looked inside. She laid the money for the eggs in a pile on the table, and took out an extra lira which she held in her hand.

“Gustavo,” she asked, “do you think that you could tell me the truth?”

“Signorina!” he said reproachfully.

“How did that name get there?”

“He write it heemself!”

“Yes, I dare say he did—but it doesn’t happen to be his name. Oh, I’m not blind; I can see plainly enough that he has scratched out his own name underneath.”

Gustavo leaned forward and affected to examine the page. “It was a li’l’ blot, signorina; he scratch heem out.”

“Gustavo!” Her tone was despairing. “Are you incapable of telling the truth? That young man’s name is no more Abraham Lincoln than Victor Emmanuel II. When did he write that and why?”

Gustavo’s eyes were on the lira; he broke down and told the truth.

“Yesterday night, signorina. He say, ‘ze next time zat Signorina Americana who is beautiful as ze angels come to zis hotel she look in ze raygeester, an’ I haf it feex ready’.”

“Oh, he said that, did he?”

“Si, signorina.”

“And his real name that comes on his letters?”

“Jayreem Ailyar, signorina.

“Say it again, Gustavo.” She cocked her head.

He gathered himself together for a supreme effort. He rolled his r’s; he shouted until the courtyard reverberated.

“Meestair-r Jay-r-reem Ailyar-r!”

Constance shook her head.

“Sounds like Hungarian—at least the way you pronounce it. But anyway it’s of no consequence; I merely asked out of idle curiosity. And Gustavo—” She still held the lira—“if he asks you if I looked in this register, what are you going to say?”

“I say, ‘no, Meestair Ailyar, she stay all ze time in ze courtyard talking wif ze parrot, and she was ver’ moch shocked at his Angleesh’.”

“Ah!” Constance smiled and laid the lira on the table. “Gustavo,” she said, “I hope, for the sake of your immortal soul, that you go often to confession.”

The eggs were not heavy, but Gustavo insisted upon carrying them; he was determined to see her safely aboard the Farfalla, with no further accidents possible. That she had not identified the young man of the garden with the donkey-driver of yesterday was clear—though how such blindness was possible, was not clear. Probably she had only caught a glimpse of his back at a distance; in any case he thanked a merciful Providence and decided to risk no further chance. As they neared the end of the arbor, Gustavo was talking—shouting fairly; their approach was heralded.

They turned into the grove. To Gustavo’s horror the most conspicuous object in it was this same reckless young man, seated on the water-wall nonchalantly smoking a cigarette. The young man rose and bowed; Constance nodded carelessly, while Gustavo behind her back made frantic signs for him to flee, to escape while still there was time. The young man telegraphed back by the same sign language that there was no danger; she didn’t suspect the truth. And to Gustavo’s amazement, he fell in beside them and strolled over to the water steps. His recklessness was catching; Gustavo suddenly determined upon a bold stroke himself.

“Signorina,” he asked, “zat man I send, zat donk’ driver—you like heem?”

“Tony?” Her manner was indifferent. “Oh, he does well enough; he seems honest and truthful, though a little stupid.”

Gustavo and the young man exchanged glances.

“And Gustavo,” she turned to him with a sweetly serious air that admitted no manner of doubt but that she was in earnest. “I told this young man that in case he cared to do any mountain climbing, you would find him the same guide. It would be very useful for him to have one who speaks English.”

Gustavo bowed in mute acquiescence. He could find no adequate words for the situation.

The boat drew alongside and Constance stepped in, but she did not sit down. Her attention was attracted by two washer-women who had come clattering on to the little rustic bridge that spanned the stream above the water steps. The women, their baskets of linen on their heads, had paused to watch the embarkation.

“Ah, Gustavo,” Constance asked over her shoulder, “is there a washer-woman here at the Hotel du Lac named Costantina?”

“Si, signorina, zat is Costantina standing on ze bridge wif ze yellow handkerchief on her head.”

Constance looked at Costantina, and nodded and smiled. Then she laughed out loud, a beautiful rippling, joyous laugh that rang through the grove and silenced the chaffinches.

Perhaps once upon a time Costantina was beautiful—beautiful as the angels—but if so, it was long, long ago. Now she was old and fat with a hawk nose and a double chin and one tooth left in the middle of the front. But if she were not beautiful, she was at least a cheerful old soul, and, though she could not possibly know the reason, she echoed the signorina’s laugh until she nearly shook the clean clothes into the water.

Constance settled herself among the cushions and glanced back toward the terrace.

“Good afternoon,” she nodded politely to the young man.

He bowed with his hand on his heart.

“Addio, Gustavo.”

He bowed until his napkin swept the ground.

“Addio, Costantina,” she waved her hand toward her namesake.

The washer-woman laughed again and her earrings flashed in the sunlight.

Giuseppe raised the yellow sail; they caught the breeze, and the Farfalla floated away.