DON GIOVANNI ARRIVES

It was a few days after Nina’s arrival in Italy; one of the glorious mornings when the famous Sansevero gardens were full of golden light, bringing into high relief the creamy marble of statues that in other centuries had been white.  Against the deep waxy green of shrubs and hedges, the fountains seemed to be tossing liquid diamonds; and beyond the marble balustrades of the descending terraces, the hills rolled away in soft gray billows of young olive leaves and powdered slopes of blossoming orange branches.  In contrast with this background of green and marble and roses and flowers and fountains stood Nina reaching up to pick a pink camellia.  In front of her, the princess was looking vaguely into the finder of a camera.

“Now what shall I do?  Just press the bulb and let go?”

“W-w-ait a moment until my teeth stop chattering!”

Nina had taken off her coat and was wearing a dress as summery in appearance as the garden.  “All right, Auntie.  This ought to be lovely—­I hope gooseflesh and a blue nose won’t show.”

The picture taken, she lost no time in getting back into her long fur coat again and wrapping it tightly around her, still shivering.

“I do hope the pictures will be good—­I am going to write under them ’In a rose garden at Christmas Time.’  I shall not tell that I never was so cold in my life as at this minute.  What I can’t understand is how the flowers are hypnotized into believing it warm weather.  It is every bit as cold as New York, yet if we were to ask these same shrubs to live in our gardens, they would hang their heads and die at the mere suggestion.”  Nina wanted to take snap shots of the princess, but the latter refused to remove her coat, and the incongruity of furs dispelled the midsummer illusion.  Slipping her hand through her aunt’s arm she drew her into a brisk walk.  The temperature of Italy is low only by comparison with its summery appearance, and by the time they reached the terrace end she was in a glow.

She looked up at the irregular stone pile of the old castle, against which semi-tropical vines climbed so high as partially to cover even the great square tower; and involuntarily she exclaimed, “It is so beautiful, so beautiful—­it almost hurts; even the color of the sunshine—­the brilliancy, yet the softness—­and then to be with you!” Enthusiastically she pressed her aunt’s arm.

“But tell me,” she went on, “what rooms are these along here?  Do I know them?  Let me see—­mine is far around on that side over there, isn’t it?”

“That is your room in the corner, the one by the fountain of the dolphins.”

Just then there was the sound of tramping on the gravel walk.  Nina turned, and the next instant her curiosity was aroused.  “Who in the world were all these people?” As her aunt paid no attention, she repeated her question, and the princess casually glanced in their direction.  It was probably a party of Cook’s tourists.  Yes, she recognized the conductor.