of the morning; then, after drying himself, lie and bake
in the sun on the scorching pebbles of the shore. Late in the season as
it was, he acquired the most beautifully toned mahogany-brown back and
chest by this method. He was boyishly proud of this splendid tanning.

"The old boy'll think he's got a nigger-chief to monkey with, this time.
Eh--what?" he asked Sophy, turning about before her in his short
bathing-trunks that she might see the full glory of his sunburnt torso.
She smiled approval, saying that to her he looked more like a
well-roasted turkey than a "nigger." And she thought what a boy the big
man was, at heart. It seemed pathetic and strange and very nice to her,
all at the same time, that he could take such pleasure in such a thing,
after all that had passed and was to come.

Sunday evening she spent in having the last things packed away. The
dismantled villa looked the picture of sordid cheerlessness, when
stripped of all the little touches she had given it. They dined by one,
virulent jet of acetylene gas, blazing in an iron loop from the middle
of the ceiling.

"By George, this _is_ funereal!" Chesney could not refrain from
exclaiming. "Two more meals like this--is it? Well, they'll give me
melancholia."

"We needn't have two more," Sophy consoled him. "I've thought it out
already. To-morrow morning we can breakfast on the terrace. Then we can
go to the Hotel Ghiffa for luncheon. Our boat doesn't leave until
three."

He looked at her with cordial appreciation.

"Clever girl--so we can!" he said. "But, I say"--his face fell--"what
about my swim and sun-bath? That would cut me short--lunching at Ghiffa,
I mean."

"But there's a capital bathing-shore at the hotel," she reminded him.
"You can have your swim there while they prepare luncheon."

About eleven o'clock next morning they sauntered together along the
white high-road to Ghiffa.

"You will have a glorious swim...." Sophy said, looking at the lake that
drowsed under the faint breath of a listless Tramontana.

"Those sleek, snaky trails on the water mean rain, they tell me,"
answered Chesney. "I'm in luck to have a sunny day for my last swim."

"Yes," she assented dreamily. "Rain isn't becoming to Italy. She's like
a beautiful woman who doesn't know how to cry."

"Sophy! How feminine! Do _you_ know 'how to cry,' pray?"

"No. I haven't the knack at all." She laughed a little. "I make horrid
faces.... I can feel myself making them."