“You find Valedolmo interesting?” she inquired.
“Interesting!” His tone was enthusiastic. “Aside from the prince’s garden which contains a cedar of Lebanon and an India rubber plant from South America, there is the Luini in the chapel of San Bartolomeo, and the statue of Garibaldi in the piazza. And then—” he waved his hand toward the lake, “there is always the view.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “one can always look at the view.”
Her eyes wandered to the lake, and across the lake to Monte Maggiore with clouds drifting about its peak. And while she obligingly studied the mountain, he studied the effect of the pink gown and the rose-bud hat. She turned back suddenly and caught him; it was a disconcerting habit of Constance’s. He politely looked away and she—with frank interest—studied him. He was bareheaded and dressed in white flannels; they were very becoming, she noted critically, and yet—they needed just a touch of color; a red sash, for example, and earrings.
“The guests of the Hotel du Lac,” she remarked, “have a beautiful garden of their own. Just the mere pleasure of strolling about in it ought to keep them contented with Valedolmo.”
“Not necessarily,” he objected. “Think of the garden of Eden—the most beautiful garden there has ever been if report speaks true—and yet the mere pleasure of strolling about didn’t keep Adam contented. One gets lonely you know.”
“Are you the only guest?”
“Oh, no, there are four of us, but we’re not very companionable; there’s such a discrepancy in languages.”
“And you don’t speak Italian?”
He shook his head.