s in
his shirt; and a white cravat was the terror of his nights, for his
fingers, broad and stubby and powerful, had not been trained to the
delicate task of tying a bow-knot. By a judicious blow in that spot where
the ribs divaricate he could right well tie his adversary into a bow-knot,
but this string of white lawn was a most damnable thing. Still, the
puttering of the two women, their daily concern over his deportment, was
bringing him into conformity with social usages. That he naturally
despised the articles of such a soulless faith was evident in his constant
inclination to play hooky. One thing he rebelled against openly, and with
such firmness that the women did not press him too strongly for fear of a
general revolt. On no occasion, however impressive, would he wear a silk
hat. Christmas and birthdays invariably called forth the gift of a silk
hat, for the women trusted that they could overcome resistance by
persistence. He never said anything, but it was noticed that the hotel
porter, or the gardener, or whatever masculine head (save his own) was
available, came forth resplendent on feast-days and Sundays.

Leaning back in an iron chair, with his shoulders resting against the oak,
was another man, altogether a different type. He was frowning over the
pages of Bagot's _Italian Lakes_, and he wasn't making much headway. He
was Italian to the core, for all that he aped the English style and
manner. He could speak the tongue with fluency, but he stumbled and
faltered miserably over the soundless type. His clothes had the Piccadilly
cut, and his mustache, erstwhile waxed and militant, was cropped at the
corners, thoroughly insular. He was thirty, and undeniably handsome.

Near the fountain, on the green, was a third man. He was in the act of
folding up an easel and a camp-stool.

The tea-drinkers had gone. It was time for the first bell for dinner. The
villa's omnibus was toiling up the winding road among the grape-vines.
Suddenly Harrigan tilted his head sidewise, and the long silken ears of
the dachel stirred. The Italian slowly closed his book and permitted his
chair to settle on its four legs. The artist stood up from his paintbox.
From a window in the villa came a voice; only a lilt of a melody, no
words,--half a dozen bars from _Martha_; but every delightful note went
deep into the three masculine hearts. Harrigan smiled and patted the dog.
The Italian scowled at the vegetable garden directly below. The art