ars swung low, plaques of
quick-gold. The grim Stone of Iron across the lake had changed to
tourmaline--reddish at one end, dusky violet at the other, as the glow
from the lime-kiln at Chaldee lit it to the east and the soft starlight
to the west. Yes, this, too, was Italy. And there came to her a strange,
elusive sense as of heart-break for sorrows long forgotten when a
nightingale began its desperate, sweet cry of passion forever
unassuaged. She had thought that in England she had first heard the
nightingale. It was not so. This was the true flame of song; that had
been but the flame's shadow. In ecstatic staves the tiny soul flung out
its supernal melody, as though weaving a poem in music--sapphics of
sound--stanzas ending each time with a new melodic phrase--the cry of a
celestial Improvisatrice, singing against the morning stars. It brought
the sense of infinity--as though from everlasting to everlasting that
marvellous _ritornello_ might go pealing on....

One morning Luigi, the little Milanese butler, brought her Amaldi's
card.

She ran down to greet him, in her white linen skirt and blouse,
forgetting to take out the oleander flower that Bobby had stuck over her
ear as they played together that morning on the terrace. The pink flower
with its dark, spiky leaves, thus nestled against her shaded hair, gave
her a careless, festival look that was delightfully new to Amaldi. It
was hard to keep his eyes steady under the look of frank pleasure with
which she met him. He told her that his mother had sent the _Fretta_ to
fetch her to Le Vigne for luncheon if she cared to come.

"I should love to!" she cried. "I'll just get a hat and a sunshade. I
won't keep you a minute."

"My mother begged that you would bring Bobby if you wished to," said
Amaldi as she was rushing off. But she called back over her shoulder:

"Thanks! No.... I'm afraid he might get tired and fret."

The morning was wonderful--too bright and unveiled for an artist's
pleasure, but not for that of mere human beings with youth and joy in
their blood. The Tramontana was still blowing. The whole lake was
a-flutter with it. The _Fretta_ sped onward between jets of foam. Peder,
the young _meccanico_, grinned with the wavelets, as an occasional
spray-shower flew past him and sprinkled the _sciori_ further aft.

The Marchesa was waiting for them on the terrace of Le Vigne. She gave
Sophy a little nosegay of white oleander and stephanotis, and kissed her