“At all events, we'll go this morning to Spiaggia, and have our hair cut,” he resolved.
So he walked to the village, and caught the ten o'clock omnibus for Spiaggia. And after he had had his hair cut, he went to the Hotel de Russie, and lunched in the garden. And after luncheon, of course, he entered the grounds of the Casino, and strolled backwards and forwards, one of a merry procession, on the terrace by the lakeside. The gay toilets of the women, their bright-coloured hats and sunshades, made the terrace look like a great bank of monstrous moving flowers. The band played brisk accompaniments to the steady babble of voices, Italian, English, German. The pure air was shot with alien scents—the women's perfumery, the men's cigarette-smoke. The marvellous blue waters crisped in the breeze, and sparkled in the sun; and the smooth snows of Monte Sfiorito loomed so near, one felt one could almost put out one's stick and scratch one's name upon them.... And here, as luck would have it, Peter came face to face with Mrs. O'Donovan Florence.
“How do you do?” said she, offering her hand.
“How do you do?” said he.
“It's a fine day,” said she.
“Very,” said he.
“Shall I make you a confidence?” she asked.
“Do,” he answered.
“Are you sure I can trust you?” She scanned his face dubiously.
“Try it and see,” he urged.