Soon after he did this, a girl opened the gate for us, greeted Mr. Wake and us all with real sweetness, and we trooped into his garden. And I was glad to see it, for I loved Mr. Wake and I wanted to see where he lived, but I would have enjoyed it in any case, for it was—without exception—the prettiest place I had ever seen.
There were high walls all around it except on the side that looked down upon Florence. Here the view was interrupted, rather edged, by groups of tall, slender cypress trees, and here was a low, marble balustrade. . . . There were vines and clumps of foliage, and in the center of the lower terrace a little fountain with a laughing cupid in its center. . . . And there were wicker chairs with hoods on them—Sam said that they were called beach chairs—and there was a yellow awning with a bright blue star on it, which had once been the sail of a Venetian fishing craft. . . . I cannot describe it. . . . While I was there I could only feel it, and hope I wouldn’t wake. . . . I sank down in a chair that had a footstool near it, and looked down the green hillside, toward the city of towers.
“Like it?” asked Sam, as he dropped on the footstool, and after my nod, lit a cigarette.
“Oh,” I murmured.
“Didn’t exaggerate, did I?” he went on.
“No,” I answered, “you couldn’t.” Then Mr. Wake came up, followed by Viola who was murmuring, “Enchanting,” “Adorable,” and “Too heavenly,” one right after the other. And after he had come to stand smiling down at me, I mentioned Miss Sheila for the first time.
“Mr. Wake,” I said, “My fairy godmother would love this more than I can say. It’ll seem strange to you, but she has talked to me of a place like this. She really has.”
“Look here,” said Mr. Wake to Sam, “you and Viola go hunt up some tea, will you—”
And Sam said, “Of course,” and stood up.
“And show Viola your last picture,” Mr. Wake added, “and take your time to it!”