“Some day I shall compose a rhapsody of my own and call it, ‘To a Tuscan Garden.’”
“Ah, but next month when the roses are out, that is the most enchanting of all,” sighed Anne dreamily.
“But we shall not be here then,” he retorted. “We shall already be on our way to Paris—I mean to Paradise!” He laughed unsteadily. “Anne, think of it. Think of you and me alone in the wagon-lit. Won’t it be deliciously improper? I shall boast before the guards. It will be my wife desires this, and that. ‘Please close the window. My wife doesn’t like a draught!’” He was so comic in his pantomime that Anne laughed until the tears came.
“You young rogue!”
He pressed her arm against his side.
“How is the poor head, dear? How would you like to lie down in the hammock and let me play to you, while the sun sinks back of the city, and sets the old Duomo on fire!”
“What a Neronic inspiration!” She smiled with an effort. “But dear, would you think it beastly of me if I sent you home now? My head is really rather bad and if I don’t make an effort to get rid of it, it may get the better of me.”
Immediately, he was full of remorse.
“Of course not. Why didn’t you send me packing a long time ago? I’ll run right along and you go to bed like a good girl. Shall I see you in the morning?”
“Weren’t we going to the Uffizi? I know you detest sightseeing as much as I do. But there are some things you simply mustn’t miss.”