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<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> The sun was setting behind Monte Maggiore, the fishing smacks were coming home, Luigi had long since carried the tea things into the house; but still the two callers   lingered on the terrace of Villa Rosa. It was Lieutenant di Ferara’s place to go first since he had come first, and Captain Coroloni doggedly held his post until such time as his junior officer should see fit to take himself off. The captain knew, as well as every one else at the officers’ mess, that in the end the lieutenant would be the favoured man; for he was a son of Count Guido di Ferara, of Turin, and titles are at a premium in the American market. But still the marriage contract was not signed yet, and the fact remained that the captain had come last; accordingly he waited. They had been there fully two hours, and poor Miss Hazel was worn with the strain. She sat nervously on the edge of her chair, and leaned forward with clasped hands listening intently. It required very keen attention to keep the run of either the captain’s or the lieutenant’s English. A few days before she had laughed at what seemed to be a funny story, and had later learned that it was an announcement of the death of the lieutenant’s grandmother. To-day she confined her answers to inarticulate murmurs which might be interpreted as either assents or negations as the case required. Constance, however, was buoyantly at her ease; she loved nothing better than the excitement of a difficult situation. As she bridged over pauses, and unobtrusively   translated from the officer’s English into real English, she at the same time kept a watchful eye on the water. She had her own reasons for wishing to detain the callers until her father’s return. Presently she saw, across the lake, a yellow sailboat float out from the shadow of Monte Maggiore and head in a long tack toward Villa Rosa. With this she gave up the task of keeping the conversation general; and abandoning Captain Coroloni to her aunt, she strolled over to the terrace parapet with Lieutenant di Ferara at her side. The picture they made was a charming colour scheme. Constance wore white, the lieutenant pale blue; an oleander tree beside them showed a cloud of pink blossoms, while behind them for a background appeared the rose of the villa wall and the deep green of cypresses against a sunset sky. The picture was particularly effective as seen from the point of view of an approaching boat. Constance broke off a spray of oleander, and while she listened to the lieutenant’s recountal of a practice march, she picked up his hat from the balustrade and idly arranged the flowers in the vizor. He bent toward her and said something; she responded with a laugh. They were both too occupied to notice that the boat had floated close in shore, until the flap of the falling sail announced its presence. Constance   glanced up with a start. She caught her father’s eye fixed anxiously upon her; whatever Gustavo and the officers’ mess of the tenth cavalry might think, he had not the slightest wish in the world to see his daughter the Contessa di Ferara. Tony’s face also wore an expression; he was sober, disgusted, disdainful; there was a glint of anger and determination in his eye. Constance hurried to the water-steps to greet her father. Of Tony she took no manner of notice; if a man elects to be a donkey-driver, he must swallow the insults that go with the part. The officers, observing that Luigi was hovering about the doorway waiting to announce dinner, waived the question of precedence and made their adieus. While Mr. Wilder and Miss Hazel were intent on the captain’s laboured farewell speech, the lieutenant crossed to Constance, who still stood at the head of the water-steps. He murmured something in Italian as he bowed over her hand and raised it to his lips. Constance blushed very becomingly as she drew her hand away; she was aware, if the officer was not, that Tony was standing beside them looking on. But as he raised his eyes, he too became aware of it; the man’s expression was more than impertinent. The lieutenant stepped to his side and said something low and rapid, something which should have   made a right-minded donkey-driver touch his hat and slink off. But Tony held his ground with a laugh which was more impertinent than the stare had been. The lieutenant’s face flushed angrily, and his hand half instinctively went to his sword. Constance stepped forward. ‘Tony! I shall have no further need of your services. You may go.’ Tony suddenly came to his senses. ‘I—beg your pardon, Miss Wilder,’ he stammered. ‘I shall not want you again; please go.’ She turned her back and joined the others. The two officers with final salutes took themselves off. Miss Hazel hurried indoors to make ready for dinner; Mr. Wilder followed in her wake, muttering something about finding the change to pay Tony. Constance stood where they left her, staring at the pavement with hotly burning cheeks. ‘Miss Wilder!’ Tony crossed to her side; his manner was humble—actually humble—the usual mocking undertone in his voice was missing. ‘Really I’m awfully sorry to have caused you annoyance; it was unpardonable.’ Constance turned toward him. ‘Yes, Tony, I think it was. Your position does not give you the right to insult my guests.’ Tony stiffened slightly. ‘I acknowledge that I insulted him, and   I’m sorry. But he insulted me, for the matter of that. I didn’t like the way he looked at me, any more than he liked the way I looked at him.’ ‘There is a certain deference, Tony, which an officer in the Royal Italian Army has a right to expect from a donkey-driver.’ Tony shrugged. ‘It is a difficult position to hold, Miss Wilder. A donkey-driver, I find, plays the same accommodating rôle as the family watch-dog. You pat him when you choose; you kick him when you choose; and he is supposed to swallow both attentions with equal grace.’ ‘You should have chosen another profession.’ ‘Naturally, I was not flattered to find that your real reason for staying at home to-day, was that you were expecting more entertaining callers.’ ‘Is there any use in discussing it further? I am not going to climb any more mountains, and I shall not, as I told you, need a donkey-man again.’ ‘Then I’m discharged?’ ‘If you wish to put it so. You must see for yourself that the play has gone far enough. However, it has been amusing, and we will at least part friends.’ She held out her hand; it was a mark of definite dismissal rather than a token of friendly forgiveness.   Tony bowed over her hand in perfect mimicry of the lieutenant’s manner. ‘Signorina, addio!’ He gravely raised it to his lips. She snatched her hand away quickly and without glancing at him turned toward the house. He let her cross half the terrace, then he called softly— ‘Signorina!’ She kept on without pausing. He took a quick step after. ‘Signorina, a moment!’ She half turned. ‘Well?’ ‘I beg of you—one little favour. There are two American ladies expected at the Hotel du Lac and I thought—perhaps—would you mind writing me a letter of recommendation?’ Constance turned back without a word and walked into the house. Mr. Wilder’s conversation at dinner that night was of the day’s excursion and Tony. He was elated, enthusiastic, glowing. Mountain-climbing was the most interesting pursuit in the world; he would begin to-morrow and exhaust the Alps. And as for Tony—his intelligence, his discretion, his cleverness—there never had been such a guide. Constance listened silently, her eyes on her plate. At another time it might have occurred to her that her father’s enthusiasm was excessive, but to-night she was occupied with her   thoughts, and she had no reason in the world to suspect him of guile. She decided, however, to postpone the announcement of Tony’s dismissal; to-morrow mountain-climbing might look less alluring. Dinner over, Mr. Wilder, with a tired if satisfied sigh, dropped into a chair to finish his reading of the London Times. He no longer skimmed his paper lightly as in the days when papers were to be had hot at any hour. He read it carefully, painstakingly, from the first advertisement to the last obituary; and he laid it down in the end with a disappointed sigh that there were not more residential properties for hire, that the day’s death list was so meagre. Miss Hazel settled herself to her knitting. She was making a rainbow shawl of seven colours and an intricate pattern, and she had to count her stitches; conversation was impossible. Constance, vaguely restless, picked up a book and laid it down, and finally sauntered out to the terrace with no thought in the world but to see the moon rise over the mountains. As she approached the parapet she became aware that some one was lounging on the water-steps smoking a cigarette. The smoker rose politely but ventured no remark. ‘Is that you, Giuseppe?’ she asked in Italian.   ‘No, signorina. It is I—Tony. I am waiting for orders.’ ‘For orders!’ There was astonishment as well as indignation in her tone. ‘I thought I made it clear——’ ‘That I was discharged? Yes, signorina. But I have been so fortunate as to find another place. The Signor Papa has engage me. I go wif him; we climb all ze mountain around.’ He waved his hand largely to comprise the whole landscape. ‘I sink perhaps it is better so—for the Signor Papa and me to go alone. Mountain-climbing is too hard; zere is too much fatigue, signorina, for you.’ He bowed humbly and deferentially, and retired to the steps and his cigarette. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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