“What does he say of the weather?” asked Florence, who saw that Calvert had walked on to a little point with the old man, to take a freer view of the lake.
“He says, that if it neither blows hard nor rains, it will probably be fine. Just what he has told us every day since I came here.”
“What about this fine trout that you spoke of, Carlo?”
“It is at Gozzano, ‘cellenza; we can take it as we go by.”
“But we are going exactly in the opposite direction, my worthy friend; we are going to the island, and to Pella.”
“That is different,” said the old man, with another shrug of the shoulders.
“Didn’t you hear thunder? I’m sure I did,” cried Miss Grainger.
“Up yonder it’s always growling,” said Calvert, pointing towards the Simplon. “It is the first welcome travellers get when they pass the summit.”
“Have you spoken to him, Milly, about Mr. Stockwell? Will he take him up at Orta, and land him here?” asked Miss Grainger, in a whisper.
“No, aunt; he hates Stockwell, he says. Carlo can take the blue boat and fetch him. They don’t want Carlo, it seems.”