“Brava, indeed,” said Peter Homer. “Thank you, Patty, for a great pleasure. Now, the gondoliers shall sing for you in return.”
They were easily induced to do so, and their Italian songs kept time to the rippling dip of their trained touch of the oar.
“I’m in the seventh heaven,” murmured Patty, as a song came to an end.
“And water,” supplemented Caddy. “Don’t forget your new-found epigram.”
“But I’m not in the water,” rejoined Patty, laughing. “What is that church? You may as well make up your minds to tell me every time, for I’m not going to try to remember. I don’t think one ought to remember anything in Venice, but just drift along and look and wonder.”
“That is the Santa Maria della Salute,” said her father.
“Indeed!” said Patty, saucily. “And why are the statues around its dome all on bicycles?”
“They’re not! Patty, I’m ashamed of you!”
“Well, they look as if they are? Don’t they, Caddy?”