‘By the way, Tony, how do you talk to Costantina, since she speaks no English and you no Italian?’
‘We have no need of either Italian or English; the language of love, signorina, is universal.’
‘Oh!’ she laughed again. ‘I was at the Hotel du Lac yesterday; I saw Costantina.’
‘You saw Costantina!—Ah, signorina, is she not beautiful? Ze mos’ beautiful in all ze world? But ver’ unkind, signorina. Yes, she laugh at me; she smile at ozzer men, at soldiers wif uniforms.’ He sighed profoundly. ‘But I love her just ze same, always from ze first moment I see her. It was wash-day, signorina, by ze lac. I climb over ze wall and talk wif her, but she make fun of me—ver’ unkind. I go away ver’ sad. No use, I say, she like dose soldiers best. But I see her again; I hear her laugh—it sound like angels singing—I say, no, I can not go away; I stay here and make her love me. Yes, I do everysing she ask—but everysing! I wear earrings; I make myself into a fool just to please zat Costantina.’
He leaned forward and looked into her eyes. A slow red flush crept over Constance’s face, and she turned her head away and looked across the water.
Mr. Wilder, in full Alpine regalia, stepped out upon the terrace and viewed the beauty of the morning with a prophetic eye. Miss Hazel followed in his wake; she wore a lavender dimity. And suddenly it occurred to Tony’s slow moving masculine perception that neither lavender dimity nor white muslin were fabrics fit for mountain climbing.
Constance slipped down from her parapet and hurried to meet them.
‘Good morning, Aunt Hazel. Morning, Dad! You look beautiful! There’s nothing so becoming to a man as knickerbockers—especially if he’s a little stout.—You’re late,’ she added with a touch of severity. ‘Breakfast has been waiting half an hour and Tony fifteen minutes.’
She turned back toward the donkey-man, who was standing, hat in hand, respectfully waiting orders. ‘Oh, Tony, I forgot to tell you; we shall not need Beppo and the donkeys to-day. You and my father are going alone.’
‘You no want to climb Monte Maggiore—ver’ beautiful mountain.’ There was disappointment, reproach, rebellion in his tone.