“One day,” pursued Sara, “you must come with me to see it. Then I think you will understand. I want you to see the courtyard with its orange trees and fountains, the little naked marble fauns and the nymphs who stand among them glistening in the sunlight. I want you to see the rooms full of shadows and great patches of sunshine; and the gallery with its pictured men and women of the house of Corleone, the dark-eyed haughty women—beauties every one of them—the gay young men and the courtly old ones. I want my portrait to be among them.”
“Yes,” said Christopher.
“It isn’t conceit,” said Sara. “At least I don’t think it is. I love that place, Christopher. It seems as if it belongs to me—had always belonged to me; I mean, long before I knew Giuseppe. I want to think that in the years to come my picture will be hanging there, looking down into the old hall, and that when the door is open I shall catch a glimpse of the courtyard bathed in sunlight, see the gleam of golden oranges and white marble figures, and hear the plashing of the fountain. It’s just a fancy.”
“A fancy,” said Christopher, with a little gesture, “as charming as yourself.”
Sara laughed. “Christopher, I love you. And you ought to have lived in the days of Queen Elizabeth, or, better still, at the Court of France.”
“I appreciate your affection,” said Christopher. “One day when we are both in a mad mood we will run away together, and pick oranges from the trees in the courtyard of Casa di Corleone. And we will play at ball with them across the fountain—golden balls tossed through a shower of silver. The idea appeals to me.”
“I am glad Casa di Corleone is mine,” said Sara, “though mine with reservations.”
“There was no entail on the estate?” asked Christopher.
“No; I don’t understand the ins and outs of the matter, but it was my husband’s to do with as he pleased.”
“It was thoughtful of the Duca to leave it to you,” said Christopher. “He might have turned it into a home for stray dogs. There are a good many in Italy, aren’t there?”