d one.'

'One is the official driver and the other is a boy whom he has brought
along to do the work.'

Constance eyed her father sharply. There was something at once guilty and
triumphant about his expression.

'What is it, Dad?' she inquired sternly. 'I suppose he has not got a sash
and earrings.'

'On the contrary, he has.'

'Really? How clever of Gustavo! I hope,' she added anxiously, 'that he
talks good Italian?'

'I don't know about his Italian, but he talks uncommonly good English.'

'English!' There was reproach, disgust, disillusionment, in her tone.
'Not really, father?'

'Yes, really and truly--almost as well as I do. He has lived in New York
and he speaks English like a dream--real English--not the
Gustavo--Lieutenant di Ferara kind. I can understand what he says.'

'How simply horrible!'

'Very convenient, I should say.'

'If there's anything I detest, it's an Americanized Italian--and here in
Valedolmo of all places, where you have a right to demand something
unique and romantic and picturesque and real. It's too bad of Gustavo! I
shall never place any faith in his judgment again. You may talk English
to the man if you like; I shall address him in nothing but Italian.'

As they rose from the table she suggested pessimistically, 'Let's go and
look at the donkeys--I suppose they'll be horrid, scraggly, knock-kneed
little beasts.'

They turned out, however, to be unusually attractive, as donkeys go, and
they were innocently engaged in nibbling, not rose leaves, but grass,
under the tutelage of a barefoot boy. Constance patted their shaggy
mouse-coloured noses, made the acquaintance of the boy, whose name was
Beppo, and looked about for the driver proper. He rose and bowed as she
approached. His appearance was even more violently spectacular than she
had ordered; Gustavo had given good measure.

He wore a loose white shirt--immaculately white--with a red silk
handkerchief knotted about his throat, brown corduroy knee-breeches, and
a red cotton sash with the hilt of a knife conspicuously protruding. His
corduroy jacket was slung carelessly across his shoulders, his hat was
cocked jauntily, with a red heron feather stuck in the band; last,
perfect touch of all, in his ears--at his ears rather (a close
examination revealed the thread)--two golden hoops flashed in the
sunlight. His skin was dark--not too dark--just a good healthy out-door
tan: his brows level and heavy, his gaze candour itself. H