“The Signorino will take coffee?” old Marietta asked, as she set the fruit before him.
Peter deliberated for a moment; then burned his ships.
“Yes,” he answered.
“But in the garden, perhaps?” the little brown old woman suggested, with a persuasive flourish.
“No,” he corrected her, gently smiling, and shaking his head, “not perhaps—certainly.”
Her small, sharp old black Italian eyes twinkled, responsive.
“The Signorino will find a rustic table, under the big willow-tree, at the water's edge,” she informed him, with a good deal of gesture. “Shall I serve it there?”
“Where you will. I leave myself entirely in your hands,” he said.
So he sat by the rustic table, on a rustic bench, under the willow, sipped his coffee, smoked his cigarette, and gazed in contemplation at the view.
Of its kind, it was rather a striking view.