“I was just looking for you,” said Canby, trying to make his tone pleasant and fatherly. “Thought you might like to come out on the piazza — quite cool and cheerful. Later I’ll take you over the gardens, when the sun isn’t so hot.”
There was a movement on the landing, and a “Thank you, sir,” came down to him. He reflected with relief that they did appear to understand English, at least; and when they had descended the stairs he led the way outside.
There, after they had been distributed among the comfortable wicker chairs and he had rung for a maid to bring cakes and lemonade, he took the trouble to look at them. The two nearest him were easily classified as Italian peasant girls, with their dark skin and hair and eyes, rather coarse features and large hands and feet. They wore brightly colored dresses and one had a large yellow imitation rose in her hair. The third was more difficult; in fact, the longer Canby looked at her the more difficult she became. Her soft brown hair, combed back from her forehead, revealed a well-formed brow, smooth and white; her features were regular and her skin of a delicate velvety texture; and the hand that rested on the arm of the chair was small and exquisite in shape. She wore a laundered dress of light tan with a black velvet bow at the throat, and the low collar permitted a view of a dainty neck between the softly curving shoulders. Nineteen, she may have been, or twenty, and was of that delightful size and figure that makes any other woman always seem either too large or too small.
Canby took in these details, or most of them, gazing at her with something like astonishment. Curious his eye hadn’t picked her out from the others as they got out of the car; but, after all, there was nothing noticeable about her, nothing startling. That was just it; it was only after you noticed her that you saw her. There was something decidedly attractive and appealing about the little red mouth, with the sensitive lips neither closed nor parted; and the total effect of her attitude and expression was of quiet, well-bred modesty as she sat there, all unconscious of Canby’s stare.
He turned to the girl nearest him:
“I know what your names are,” he said with an apologetic smile, “but I don’t know how they’re distributed.”
Her black eyes, honest and patient, returned his look.
“Mine is Rose Manganaro,” she replied. “This,” she indicated to the girl next to her, “is Mildred Lavicci. And Miss Somi — Nella Somi.”
So her name was Nella Somi. That might be anything. He wished that she would turn her head so he could see her eyes. He ventured some trivial question, but it was Rose Manganaro who answered, and a conversation was started. She spoke of the hot city they had left behind, and the ride up the Hudson, and the beautiful homes they had passed on the way from the station. Then cakes and lemonade arrived, and Canby amused himself by watching their white teeth as they bit into the yellow squares. Nella Somi, he remarked, took no cake, but merely sipped her lemonade. After that their tongues were loosened and the two Italian girls talked freely and unaffectedly. Mildred had noticed some men playing golf on the way from the station, and Canby described the game in detail for their benefit.
Thus the time passed somehow until luncheon, and after that they returned to the piazza. Canby had promised himself that, as soon as he had sat at the table with them, he would leave them to their own resources and drive back to Greenhedge for the match with his friend Linwood, who was waiting for him; but, now that the time had come, he didn’t go. The desultory conversation of that morning was resumed, and the afternoon dragged away. Nella Somi spoke hardly at all, but the others made up for it. Finally, the shadows began to lengthen and a cooling breeze arose from the direction of the river. Rose Manganaro spoke of the gardens.
“I’ll show you around if you want,” offered Canby. “Not so hot now.”
“Oh, we wouldn’t trouble you, sir,” replied Rose, getting up from her chair, “we can go alone, if it’s all right. Are you coming, Mildred? Nella?”
Mildred was already on her feet, but Nella Somi declared that she was too comfortable to move. Canby at once decided to stay where he was, but rose politely as the two girls passed in front of him on their way to the steps. A minute later they had disappeared around the bend of the garden path. When Canby sat down again he moved over to the chair left vacant next to Nella Somi.
“You don’t care for flowers?” he ventured after a little.
“Oh yes, I love them,” she replied quickly, “but it’s so hot, and I’m so tired.”
“In an hour it will be cool; we’re quite close to the river here, you know. In the evenings, on the water, it’s really chilly.”
“In a boat, you mean.”
“Yes; especially in a swift one.”
Suddenly she turned her eyes on him, and he saw them for the first time.
It took his breath. He had expected them to be brown, from the darkness of her hair, and their clear vivid blue almost startled him. The lashes, heavy and drooping, were even darker than her hair, and the effect was striking and strangely beautiful. If she had purposely kept them from him throughout the afternoon she appeared now to have changed her mind, for she returned his gaze frankly and artlessly, to the point of disconcerting him. The vivid blue eyes held curiosity.
“You don’t do anything, do you?” she observed finally.
“Do anything?” he repeated.
“Work, I mean.”
“Oh! No.” He forbore smiling. “That is, no regular work. I have an office in New York, but I’m very seldom there.”
“How funny! I have to work so hard and you do nothing at all.” There was no resentment in her tone; her interest in the question seemed purely academic.
“Your hard work doesn’t seem to leave much impression,” returned Canby.
She calmly noted his gaze resting on her pretty white hands.
“I wouldn’t let it,” she replied with a smile. “Anyway, it isn’t that kind. I sort candies, and I wear gloves.” She twisted about in her chair the better to face him, with a quick graceful movement of her supple young body. The blue eyes were half closed as if in speculation. “To think of a big ugly man like you with nothing to do, and me working all day long,” she continued. “I could be so pretty if I had time for things!”
“I’m not sure it would be safe for you to be much prettier,” returned Canby with a laugh. To himself he added, “Or possible either.” He went on aloud: “But am I so ugly as all that?”
The blue eyes flashed a smile, then were serious:
“All men are ugly,” she declared daintily; “it’s a part of them. They’re clumsy and not nice to look at. If only there were something else to marry!”
“Are you thinking of marriage?”
“Oh, yes; Tony, Rose’s brother. But I haven’t promised yet, and I don’t think I will. He’s very nice, but so... so ugly.” She paused a moment. “There were a lot of men on the train this morning and they were frightful.”
“Did they annoy you?” demanded Canby in the tone of a protector.
“No; they never do. Of course, they often speak to me, on the street too, but that’s all.”
“What do you mean?”
“I look as if I didn’t understand them and say something in Italian or French. They always look frightened and go away. Americans are so afraid of a foreign tongue.”
“You speak Italian and French?”
“Yes. My mother was French; she was born in Paris. But, my goodness!”—she laughed a little for the first time, a low soft ripple of sound that enchanted the ear — “I tell all about myself, don’t I? Parlons un peu à votre sujet, monsieur.”