Luigi himself was fully aware of
his shortcomings. He was a finished butler, but had never valeted any
one. Still he was intelligent. "Direct me ... direct me, milor'," he
would plead. "I shall improve with time, like wine."

So, far from being irritated by the lake, Chesney seemed to feel its
charm strongly. He questioned Sophy about her life of the past two
months; expressed himself much touched by the kindness shown her by the
Marchesa.

"You must take me there," he said. "We'll hire a steam-launch of our own
for the rest of the time we're here--from what's-his-name--the man at
Stresa.... What did you call him?"

"Taroni," said Sophy.

It was the day after his arrival. She still felt rather stunned, as
though a bolt had struck the quiet house of her content. She felt
blasted by his renewed, torrential passion and the quintessential
strength of his personality. Fortunately for her, she could be merely
the leaf in the storm--had only to let it sweep her along without effort
on her part. The storm does not take account of the leaves it whirls in
its imperious grasp. Chesney, in his present volcanic gusto of renewed
health, would as soon have thought of pausing to ask whether the partner
in his feast of love shared his transports as an eagle would think of
inquiring of a lamb whether it enjoys being devoured. He was fond of
calling her "Diana." He was sure that even with Endymion, the goddess
had been veiled and reticent. And Sophy had been "in love" with him
once. He took it for granted, in his lordly way--that, after all, had
something grandiose in it--that she was still in love with him. He had
been an "ill man" when he offended her--(sometimes it made him wince
that he must have offended even more terribly than he could recall). It
was, as Heine had said of _le Bon Dieu_, a woman's _metier_ to forgive.

And he rushed exuberantly to and fro, ordering a fast steam-launch from
Taroni; sweeping Sophy off in it to Intra to choose a piano--it vexed
him that she had no piano, had not been singing at all during her stay
in Italy; spending hours in trying to find a small sailing yacht to his
liking.

"That's a ripper your friend Amaldi's got," he said to Sophy. "_The
Wind-Flower_. Jolly name, by the way. Perhaps he'd help me find a good
'un. Let's go over to their place this afternoon. I want to thank the
old lady for being so decent to you and the little chap."

So they went tearing through the autumn-coloured water