Below us stretched a wild, neglected garden, picturesque but overgrown, and further away was a flourishing vineyard and a bare stretch of heath, only redeemed from absolute ugliness by the brilliant patches of wild-flowers and frequent groups of olive-trees. Although it was early morning the warm air was already laden with the languid, almost oppressive, scent of wild hyacinths and other odorous plants, and there seemed to be every promise of a scorching hot day. As usual, our breakfast consisted almost entirely of different sorts of fruits and the wine of the country, and until we had nearly finished and my father had leaned back in his low wicker chair, with the blue smoke from a cigarette curling around him, we scarcely interchanged a word.
"I wonder if there's anything in the house for lunch?" I remarked, rather abruptly.
My father looked at me with a mild astonishment, for we seldom asked one another questions of that sort, leaving almost everything to our housekeeper.
"I haven't the faintest idea," he acknowledged, languidly fanning himself with his hat. "Better ask Marie. Why this premature curiosity?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "We may have company," I remarked.
My father arched his eyebrows, and looked at me incredulously.
"Company, nonsense! You haven't asked your friends to luncheon, have you?"
I shook my head. "Haven't asked them, but I shouldn't wonder if they weren't here all the same. They are going to San Martino, and it occurs to me that by the time they reach here they may be glad of a rest. It's going to be a warmish day."
Marie had come out to take away the remains of our breakfast, and I appealed to her. She shrugged her massive shoulders discouragingly, and held up her hands. We were not often home for lunch, and she had provided nothing.
We looked at one another helplessly, my father and I, and then simultaneously broke into a short laugh.