“Everything. I have your permission to smoke?”
Emilia smiled. “I wish I had some Italian cigars to give you. My father sometimes has plenty given to him.”
Wilfrid did not contemplate his havannah with less favour.
“Now,” said Emilia, taking a last sniff of the flowers before surrendering her nostril to the invading smoke. She looked at the scene fronting her under a blue sky with slow flocks of clouds: “How I like this!” she exclaimed. “I almost forget that I long for Italy, here.”
Beyond a plot of flowers, a gold-green meadow dipped to a ridge of gorse bordered by dark firs and the tips of greenest larches.
CHAPTER VI
“My father is one of the most wonderful men in the whole world!”
Wilfrid lifted an eyelid.
“He is one of the first-violins at the Italian Opera!”