When Peter rose next morning, he pulled a grimace at the
departed night.
"You are a detected cheat," he cried, "an unmasked impostor.
You live upon your reputation as a counsellor--'tis the only
reason why we bear with you. La nuit porte conseil! Yet what
counsel have you brought to me?--and I at the pass where my
need is uttermost. Shall I go to her this afternoon, and
unburden my soul--or shall I not? You have left me where you
found me--in the same fine, free, and liberal state of
vacillation. Discredited oracle!"
He was standing before his dressing-table, brushing his hair.
The image in the glass frowned back at him. Then something
struck him.
"At all events, we'll go this morning to Spiaggia, and have our
hair cut," he resolved.
So he walked to the village, and caught the ten o'clock omnibus
for Spiaggia. And after he had had his hair cut, he went to
the Hotel de Russie, and lunched in the garden. And after
luncheon, of course, he entered the grounds of the Casino, and
strolled backwards and forwards, one of a merry procession, on
the terrace by the lakeside. The gay toilets of the women,
their bright-coloured hats and sunshades, made the terrace look
like a great bank of monstrous moving flowers. The band played
brisk accompaniments to the steady babble of voices, Italian,
English, German. The pure air was shot with alien scents--the
women's perfumery, the men's cigarette-smoke. The marvellous
blue waters crisped in the breeze, and sparkled in the sun; and
the smooth snows of Monte Sfiorito loomed so near, one felt one
could almost put out one's stick and scratch one's name upon
them . . . . And here, as luck would have it, Peter came face
to face with Mrs. O'Donovan Florence.
"How do you do?" said she, offering her hand.
"How do you do?" said he.
"It's a fine day," said she.
"Very," said he.
"Shall I make you a confidence?" she asked.
"Do," he answered.
"Are you sure I can trust you?" She scanned his face dubiously.
"Try it and see," he urged.
"Well, then, if you must know, I was thirsting to take a table
and call for coffee; but having no man at hand to chaperon me,
I dared not."
"Je vous en prie'' cried Peter, with a gesture of gallantry;
and he led her to one of the round marble tables. "Due caffe,"
he said to the brilliant creature (chains, buckles, ear-rings,
of silver filigree, and head-dress and apron of flame-red silk)
who came to learn their pleasure.