"Mario!" He called to his man who was seated in the shade thrown by the osier fence, studying tips for the coming races.
"Mario—I shall dress now." The olive face flashed into a smile as the man sprang nimbly to his feet. For Mario adored his young master, a welcome change from the elderly Marquis with his fads and fancies and uncertain temper.
"Sissignore—at once! signore." Still he lingered, deferential.
"A thousand excuses, but does he remember the Princess Doria lunches with us to-day? The Signore has but his grey suit in the shed. It would be better to dress at the villa."
"Va bene—I had forgotten her! And the new Poet——" he added, aside, "I can't stand that effeminate ass, but she never goes two steps without him!"
He slipped on a long bath towel garment, screening his scanty bathing gown, and drew the hood down over his head while Mario produced slippers with soles of twisted hemp, and tied them on to his master's feet.
Now, not unlike a Dominican friar, in this primitive costume, he crossed the beach and turned along the country road until he came to the first pines, Mario in the rear, carrying his clothes.
Here they took a sandy foot path where scanty patches of coarse grass and clusters of wild pansy marked the borders of the straggling wood.
It led to a clearing in the trees and a villa, painted strawberry pink, with a tiled terrace and veranda, wreathed about with Bourgainvillia.
McTaggart paused on the threshold and rang a bell, answered quickly by a servant.