“They are so kind,” said Miss Sheila, “and sometimes I think that this is the most beautiful spot in the world.”
I didn’t blame her for thinking so, (though her thinking so confessed that she hadn’t seen Mr. Wake’s garden) for the place is most lovely. It is, in some way connected with Cosimo I, it is said, and the Medici coat of arms is to be found around in different spots. It is a very old building, and it is, like everything else on the hillside, perched on the slant with all its lovely gardens planted on steps. And down below spreads out the country with little blazing yellow roadways, and pink and tan villas, and groves of gentle green olive trees, and a church and monastery that often send up the soft sound of bells. . . . And of course the sunshine spreads over everything like a gold mantle, and the little grey-green olive leaves shimmer under every small breeze that comes along, and sometimes the song of a peasant girl rises. . . . And of course there were rose leaves scattered on the terraces—blown from this or that bush—and the scents of many flowers in the warm soft air.
I can’t describe it, but some day some one will describe it, and then he will be able to build a villa that is richer and prouder and larger than another one that the Medicis built out near Fiesole—the one where Queen Victoria often visited—for a real description would make a real fortune!
“You like it, don’t you!” asked Miss Sheila, after she had drunk the chocolate and eaten the small biscuit, and I had set her cup down on the soft, short grass. I nodded. It is hard for me to say I like things when I do like them very much.
“It has changed you,” said Miss Sheila, “there is a new light in your eyes; the light of dreams, I think—and now tell me about things, your friends, your work, and Signor Paggi—” and I did.
Of course I had to mention Mr. Wake, and each time I did I faltered and grew conscious, although there was no reason for my doing this, since Miss Sheila had not known Terrence Wake, but a boy who was Terrence O’Gilvey.
He came up quite naturally through my hopes for Miss Meek, and Mr. Wake’s plan for Mr. Hemmingway—he was going to let Mr. Hemmingway stay in his villa for the summer months, which would be a great treat for any one and heaven for a man who had lived for years in a dull pension—and through his befriending Sam, who was doing so well, and promising to do much more than well.
“How kind your Mr. Wake must be,” said Miss Sheila.
“He is,” I answered.
“I’d like to meet him,” she said.