ould
wipe out of existence with one fierce wish, if I had it in me. To think
that they--_they_--should have the power to humiliate us. I don't get
back my self-respect till we're on a level, or my _joie de vivre_ until
we're shooting downhill, and can hold our own with a forty horse-power
motor, to say nothing of a one-horse, Italian village boy."

"What a revelation of vindictiveness, where one would least expect it!"
exclaimed Mr. Barrymore. "But the rain's over. Shall we go on?" And we
all agreed eagerly, as we probably should in Paradise, if it were a
question of motoring.

XVIII

A CHAPTER ACCORDING TO SHAKSPERE

"Another Cuneo!" groaned Aunt Kathryn, at sight of the hotel in the
steep little town of Desenzano, on Lake Garda; but later she apologized
to the quaint courtyard for her misunderstanding, and was more than
tolerant of her vast bedroom draped with yellow satin, and opening on an
arboured terrace worthy even of a Countess Dalmar.

For miles our way towards Verona next morning was pink and white with
chestnut bloom. Even the shadows seemed warmly pink under the long
unbroken arch of flowering trees. Far away, behind the green netting of
their branches, we caught blue flashes of lake and mountain peaks of
amethyst, while Beechy wished for a dozen noses dotted about here and
there at convenient intervals on her body, so that she might make the
most of the perfumed air. "But you would want them all cut off when you
got to the nearest town," remarked Aunt Kathryn.

Ever since Brescia, the road had been so smooth and well kept that it
was as if we had come into a different country; but Mr. Barrymore said
it was because we were now under the jurisdiction of Venice--Venice, as
rich and practical as romantic. And I had to repeat the name over and
over in my mind--Verona and Padua too--to make myself believe that we
were actually so near.

Horses were better trained in this district, and "knew a motor when they
saw it." Even a drove of sheep (near the wonderful fortress of Peschiera
with its coiled python of a river) seemed comparatively indifferent as
they surged round us in a foaming wave of wool. But then, sheep have no
facial expression. All other four-footed things show emotion by a change
of countenance, just as human beings do--more, because they don't
conceal their feelings--but sheep look as if they wore foolishly smiling
masks. Even when, as their ranks closed in around the automobile, we