“The owners of the vineyard are Italians, all of them,” said Evelyn, “and you will certainly feel that you are in Italy when you get there. They are so simple and adorable. And there is a kind of an inn where we can stay. They call it the ‘Hosteria.’ Oh, you will love it, I know.”
The picnic was to begin in the morning. Miss Helen, prepared for an all day trip, was properly surprised when Billie turned the Comet into a little mountain road running between grapevines now heavy with fruit.
Men and women were gathering the grapes in baskets, singing while they worked.
At the top of the mountain was the tiniest little village imaginable, all stucco houses on a dusty street with a church at one end. Next to the church was the inn and standing at the door of the inn was the landlord and owner of the vineyard, Pasquale.
“Buon giorno, Signorina,” he cried. “I giva you the gooda welcome. I have receive the letter of the Signorina. All isa prepared.”
Across the entrance of the hosteria ran a legend printed in red letters on a white background:
“MAN RETUNS TO HAPNES THIS DAY—AUGUS.
TWENTY-SEC. SIGNORA
ELEANORA CAMEL.”