shadows beginning to spread over the brown mountains, they went
to pay their visit. It was not much of a place, a small,
modernized stucco villa, with a hot pebbly garden, and in it a
stone basin with torpid gold fish, and a statue of Diana and her
hounds against the wall. But what gave a glory to it was a
gigantic rose-tree which clambered over the house, almost
smothering the windows, and filling the air with the perfume
of its sweetness. Yes, it was a fine rose, the _Conte_ said
proudly when they praised it, and he would tell the Signora
about it. And as they sat there, drinking the wine he offered
them, he alluded with the cheerful indifference of old age to
his love-affair, as though he took for granted that they had
heard of it already.

"The lady lived across the valley there beyond that hill. I was
a young man then, for it was many years ago. I used to ride over
to see her; it was a long way, but I rode fast, for young men,
as no doubt the Signora knows, are impatient. But the lady was
not kind, she would keep me waiting, oh, for hours; and one day
when I had waited very long I grew very angry, and as I walked
up and down in the garden where she had told me she would see
me, I broke one of her roses, broke a branch from it; and when I
saw what I had done, I hid it inside my coat--so--and when I
came home I planted it, and the Signora sees how it has grown.
If the Signora admires it, I must give her a cutting to plant
also in her garden; I am told the English have beautiful gardens
that are green, and not burnt with the sun like ours."

The next day, when their mended carriage had come up to fetch
them, and they were just starting to drive away from the inn,