“He is going to invite you to his tennis tea on Sunday,” giggled Anne. “Perhaps you can catch him on the rebound.”
“Never say die! If I can’t have a daughter-in-law, I might as well get me a husband!” The Marchesa rose to her feet rheumatically. “But I must limp along now dear. The sun is beginning to sink behind the Duomo and my old bones will creak if I linger.”
Anne moved towards her quickly. “I hate to have you go, dear lady.”
Arm in arm, they strolled towards the balustrade and leaned there silently. Dotted with occasional villas, the terraced hillsides glowed russet. Dusky cypresses towered beside stone walls. Olive trees, in gray-green uniforms elbowed gayly-blossoming fruit trees, “Like soldiers out with their sweethearts,” murmured Anne. “How Florence grows upon one. What a personality she has! There is something chaste and virginal about her, which is strange when you consider her history. She is as unlike Rome or Venice as Botticelli is different from Michael Angelo and Titian. But I put it so badly!”
“I see what you mean,” broke in the Marchesa. “Florence will always be pre-Raphaelite. She is the Blonde Princess, while Rome and Venice——” she hesitated.
“Are the wicked brunettes—the red-haired villainesses like myself,” finished Anne with a laugh. “But it is beautiful. I never get tired of the Duomo, especially from this distance, do you? Near to, it resembles a mah jong set a little too closely to suit me in flippant moods.”
“Blasphemer!”
In spite of the rheumatism, they lingered while the setting sun cast a ruddy glow over roofs and buildings and stained the Arno pink, as it crawled beneath its bridges, and here and there a window gleamed rose-colored. The crimson dome of the cathedral resembled a mammoth ruby, its columnar campanile soaring ethereally beside it.
Still arm in arm, the two women sauntered away from the scene regretfully, and descended the short flight of steps into the garden.
“What are you doing with yourself to-night?” asked Anne as they strolled down one of the graveled paths.