He shifted his weight.
‘I am an American too,’ he observed.
‘Really?’ The girl leaned forward and examined him more closely, an innocent, candid, wholly detached look in her eyes. ‘From your appearance I should have said you were German—most of the foreigners who visit Valedolmo are German.’
‘Well, I’m not,’ he said shortly. ‘I’m American.’
‘It is a pity my father is not at home,’ she returned, ‘he enjoys meeting Americans.’
A gleam of anger replaced the embarrassment in the young man’s eyes. He glanced about for a dignified means of escape; they had him pretty well penned in. Unless he wished to reclimb the wall—and he did not—he must go by the terrace, which retreat was cut off by the washer-women, or by the parapet, already occupied by the girl in white and the washing. He turned abruptly and his elbow brushed a stocking to the ground.
He stooped to pick it up and then he blushed still a shade deeper.
‘This is washing day,’ observed the girl with a note of apology. She rose to her feet and stood on the top of the parapet while she beckoned to Giuseppe, then she turned and looked down upon the young man with an expression of frank amusement. ‘I hope you will enjoy the cedar of Lebanon and the india-rubber tree. Good afternoon.’
She jumped to the ground and crossed to the water-steps, where Giuseppe, with a radiant smile, was steadying the boat against the landing. She settled herself comfortably among the cushions and then for a moment glanced back towards shore.
‘You would better go out by the gate,’ she called. ‘The wall on the farther side is harder to climb than the one you came in by; and besides, it has broken glass on the top.’