n who had come
clattering on to the little rustic bridge that spanned the stream above
the water-steps. The women, their baskets of linen on their heads, had
paused to watch the embarkation.

'Ah, Gustavo,' Constance asked over her shoulder, 'is there a
washer-woman here at the Hotel du Lac named Costantina?'

'_Si_, signorina, zat is Costantina standing on ze bridge wif ze yellow
handkerchief on her head.'

Constance looked at Costantina, and nodded and smiled. Then she laughed
out loud, a beautiful rippling, joyous laugh that rang through the grove
and silenced the chaffinches.

Perhaps once upon a time Costantina was beautiful--beautiful as the
angels--but if so, it was long, long ago. Now she was old and fat, with a
hawk nose and a double chin and one tooth left in the middle of the
front. But if she were not beautiful, she was at least a cheerful old
soul, and, though she could not possibly know the reason, she echoed the
signorina's laugh until she nearly shook the clean clothes into the
water.

Constance settled herself among the cushions and glanced back toward the
terrace.

'Good afternoon,' she nodded politely to the young man.

He bowed with his hand on his heart.

'_Addio_, Gustavo.'

He bowed until his napkin swept the ground.

'_Addio_, Costantina,' she waved her hand toward her namesake.

The washer-woman laughed again, and her earrings flashed in the sunlight.

Giuseppe raised the yellow sail; they caught the breeze, and the
_Farfalla_ floated away.

CHAPTER X

Half-past six on Friday morning, and Constance appeared on the terrace;
Constance in fluffy, billowy, lacy white with a spray of oleander in her
belt--the last costume in the world in which one would start on a
mountain climb. She cast a glance in passing toward the gateway and the
stretch of road visible beyond, but both were empty, and seating herself
on the parapet, she turned her attention to the lake. The breeze that
blew from the farther shore brought fresh Alpine odours of flowers and
pine trees. Constance sniffed it eagerly as she gazed across toward the
purple outline of Monte Maggiore. The serenity of her smile gradually
gave place to doubt; she turned and glanced back toward the house,
visibly changing her mind.

But before the change was finished, the quiet of the morning was broken
by a clatter of tiny scrambling obstinate hoofs and a series of
ejaculations, both Latin and English. She glanced toward the ga