The Hotel du Lac may be approached in two ways. The ordinary, obvious way, which incoming tourists of necessity choose, is by the highroad and the gate. But the romantic way is by water. One sees only the garden then and the garden is the distinguished¹ feature of the place; it was planned long before the hotel was built to adorn² a marquis’s pleasure house. There are grottos³, arbors, fountains, a winding⁵ stream; and, stretching the length of the water front, a deep cool grove⁶ of interlaced plane trees. At the end of the grove, half a dozen broad stone steps dip down to a tiny harbor which is carpeted on the surface with lily pads. The steps are worn by the lapping waves of fifty years, and are grown over with slippery, slimy water weeds.
 
  The world was just stirring from its afternoon siesta⁷, when the Farfalla dropped her yellow sails and floated into the shady little harbor. Giuseppe prodded⁸ and pushed along the fern-grown banks until the keel jolted⁹ against the water steps. He sprang ashore¹⁰ and steadied the boat while Constance alighted. She slipped on the mossy step—almost went under—and righted herself with a laugh that rang gaily¹¹ through the grove.
 
She came up the steps still smiling, shook out her fluffy¹² pink skirts, straightened her rose-trimmed hat, and glanced reconnoiteringly about the grove. One might reasonably expect, attacking the hotel as it were from the flank, to capture unawares any stray guest. But aside from a chaffinch or so and a brown-and-white spotted¹³ calf¹⁴ tied to a tree, the grove was empty—blatantly empty. There was a shade of disappointment in Constance’s glance. One naturally does not like to waste one’s best embroidered¹⁵ gown on a spotted calf.
 
  Then her eye suddenly brightened as it lighted on a vivid splash of yellow under a tree. She crossed over and picked it up—a paper covered French novel; the title was Bijou, the author was Gyp. She turned to the first page. Any reasonably careful person might be expected to write his name in the front of a book—particularly a French book—before abandoning it to the mercies of a foreign hotel. But the several fly leaves were immaculately innocent of all sign of ownership.
 
So intent was she upon this examination, that she did not hear footsteps approaching down the long arbor⁴ that led from the house; so intent was the young man upon a frowning scrutiny¹⁶ of the path before him, that he did not see Constance until he had passed from the arbor into the grove. Then simultaneously¹⁷ they raised their heads and looked at each other. For a startled second they stared—rather guiltily—both with the air of having been caught. Constance recovered her poise¹⁸ first; she nodded—a nod which contained   not the slightest hint of recognition—and laughed.
 
“Oh!” she said. “I suppose this is your book? And I am afraid you have caught me red-handed. You must excuse me for looking at it, but usually at this season only German Alpine-climbers stop at the Hotel du Lac, and I was surprised you know to find that German Alpine-climbers did anything so frivolous¹⁹ as reading Gyp.”
 
The man bowed with a gesture which made her free of the book, but he continued his silence. Constance glanced at him again, and this time she allowed a flash of recognition to appear in her face.'
 
“Oh!” she re-exclaimed with a note of interested politeness, “you are the young man who stumbled into Villa²⁰ Rosa last Monday looking for the garden of the prince?”
 
He bowed a second time, an answering flash appearing in his face.
 
“And you are the young woman who was sitting on the wall beside a row of—of—“
 
  “Stockings?” She nodded. “I trust you found the prince’s garden without difficulty?”
 
“Yes, thank you. Your directions were very explicit²¹.”
 
A slight pause followed, the young man waiting deferentially²² for her to take the lead.
 
“You find Valedolmo interesting?” she inquired.
 
“Interesting!” His tone was enthusiastic. “Aside from the prince’s garden which contains a cedar²³ of Lebanon and an India rubber plant from South America, there is the Luini in the chapel²⁴ of San Bartolomeo, and the statue of Garibaldi in the piazza²⁵. And then—” he waved his hand toward the lake, “there is always the view.”
 
“Yes,” she agreed, “one can always look at the view.”
 
Her eyes wandered to the lake, and across the lake to Monte Maggiore with clouds drifting about its peak. And while she obligingly studied the mountain, he   studied the effect of the pink gown and the rose-bud hat. She turned back suddenly and caught him; it was a disconcerting habit of Constance’s. He politely looked away and she—with frank interest—studied him. He was bareheaded and dressed in white flannels²⁶; they were very becoming, she noted²⁷ critically, and yet—they needed just a touch of color; a red sash, for example, and

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