‘It is lukewarm, Gustavo.’
The waiter’s eyes roved anxiously. They lighted on the lunette of shimmering water and purple mountains visible at the farther end of the arbour.
‘Zere is ze view,’ he suggested humbly. ‘Ze view from ze water front is consider ver’ beautiful, ver’ nice. Many foreigners come entirely for him. You can see Lago di Garda, Monte Brione, Monte Baldo wif ze ruin castle of ze Scaliger, Monte Maggiore, ze Altissimo di Nago, ze snow cover peak of Monte——’
Mr. Jerymn Hilliard, Jr., stopped him with a gesture.
‘That will do; I read Baedeker myself, and I saw them all the first night I came. You must know at your age, Gustavo, that a man can’t enjoy a view by himself; it takes two for that sort of thing.—Yes, the truth is that I am lonely. You can see yourself to what straits I am pushed for conversation. If I had your command of language, now, I would talk to the German Alpine climbers.’
An idea flashed over Gustavo’s features.
‘Ah, zat is it! Why does not ze signore climb mountains? Ver’ helful; ver’ diverting. I find guide.’
‘You needn’t bother. Your guide would be Italian, and it’s too much of a strain to talk to a man all day in dumb show.’ He folded his arms with a weary sigh. ‘A week of Valedolmo! An eternity!’
Gustavo echoed the sigh. Though he did not entirely comprehend the trouble, still he was of a generously sympathetic nature.
‘It is a pity,’ he observed casually, ‘zat you are not acquaint wif ze Signor Americano who lives in Villa Rosa. He also finds Valedolmo undiverting. He comes—but often—to talk wif me. He has fear of forgetting how to spik Angleesh, he says.’