Sometimes we were ministered to by small maidens, with marvellously neat, sleek hair, who sprang up under our eyes, apparently from rabbit-holes, their arms hooked into the handles of big fruit baskets which might easily have been their bathtubs or cradles.  If we seemed inclined to turn away with an expressionless gaze, the little creatures forged after us with a determined trot, laid back with tiny brown hands the dainty white napkin hiding the basket’s contents, and tempted us with purple plums or mellow pears.  In the end, we invariably succumbed to these wiles, even when we had sickened at the thought of fruit, and were obliged surreptitiously to hide our purchases by the wayside, when the sturdy young vendors’ backs were turned.

We carried our panamas in our hands, and the Boy’s short chestnut curls clung to his forehead in damp rings, making him look absurdly childish.  I wondered at myself for discussing with eager interest, as I often did, so many of life’s unanswerable questions with such a slip of boyhood.  Still, I knew that I should often do it again, while we remained together, and that he would know how to measure wits with mine, to my disadvantage, compelling always my respect for his opinions, unless he happened to be in an inconsequential or impish mood.

After a long climb, we called a halt at the most attractive of several little wayside chalets we had passed.  Each was thoughtfully provided with an awning or wooden roof stretching across the road to give shade to travellers, who were lured to pause by bottles of bright-coloured syrups, wine, and beer displayed on flower-decked tables.  Our chosen chalet made a specialty of milk, and a view.  There was a rough balcony at the back, built over a sheer precipice, and far beneath, the Rhone Valley spread itself for our eyes.  We sat resting, with glasses of rich yellow milk in our hands, when a voice under the road-shelter in front roused us from reverie.  It was the Contessa greeting Joseph and Innocentina, who were reposing on a bench in the delicious shade.

“I was just thinking it was rather queer they hadn’t caught us up,” I said, rising; and then I asked myself why I had said it; for, when I came to cross-question my own thoughts, they had to own up that the Contessa had not been in them.

“Oh, it was the Contessa you were thinking of, then, when you sat looking as if you were a thousand miles away, and had left your body behind to keep your place?” said the Boy, jumping up quickly.  “Well, here she is; your mind may be at ease.”

We returned to the front of the house, through the neat, bare “living-room,” the Boy a step or two ahead of me, as if anxious to greet the new arrivals.  Off came his hat, and he stood leaning against the carriage, looking up into the warm brown eyes of Gaeta, which were warmer and brighter than ever because of this sudden show of devotion.