He kept on; she raised her voice.
‘Mr. Yamhankeesh.’
He paused.
‘You call, signorina?’
‘Be sure and be here by half-past six on Friday morning; we must start early.’
‘Sank you, signorina. Good night.’
‘Good night, Tony.’
CHAPTER VIII
The Hotel du Lac may be approached in two ways. The ordinary, obvious way, which incoming tourists of necessity choose, is by the high road and the gate. But the romantic way is by water. One sees only the garden then, and the garden is the distinguished feature of the place; it was planned long before the hotel was built to adorn a marquis’s pleasure house. There are grottos, arbours, fountains, a winding stream, and, stretching the length of the water front, a deep cool grove of interlaced plane trees. At the end of the grove, half a dozen broad stone steps dip down to a tiny harbour which is carpeted on the surface with lily pads. The steps are worn by the lapping waves of fifty years, and are grown over with slippery, slimy water weeds.