The basin of the fountain in the center was velvet green with moss, and over the limpid water there spread the flat leaves of water-lilies. Above the wall rose the sweet-smelling chestnuts, spreading their fan-like foliage and snowy blossoms, tier upon tier, against the brilliant sky, and through the low arch, trellised with roses, the garden stretched, a bewildering mass of color, white, mauve, yellow, pink, blue and red, into the soft distance, a swaying mass of trees. It was late afternoon, and the shadows were lengthening, as out of the house, the door of which stood open, came the little painter. He stepped into the sunshine, mopping his face and shaking his clothes.
From head to foot he was a mass of green slime, his doublet torn, his hands scratched, his face hot and perspiring. After a few vain attempts to remove the dirt that clung to him, he looked around with a rueful countenance.
"Graziosa!" he called. "Graziosa!"
The lattice of an upper window was thrown open, and Graziosa looked out.
At sight of her father she laughed. "Hast thou been down thy passage again, father?" she called from the window.
Agnolo made a wry face good-humoredly. "That I have," he returned, "and fell into a pond at the other end."
"The other end!" echoed his daughter. "Then you got through?"
Vistarnini rubbed his damaged hands together with satisfaction. "Aye," he said with a smile, "after tearing my clothes, fighting briers, stepping on toads, stifling with dust, and pitching on my face in the dark, I——"
"Fell into a pond!" laughed Graziosa.
"Got to the other end," cried the little painter. "Got to the other end!" Graziosa disappeared from the window, and came running into the courtyard, a slender figure in scarlet.