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.

“Softly, softly,” put in Mrs. O’Donovan Florence.  “Not a drop of coffee for me.  An orange-sherbet, if you please.  Coffee was a figure of speech—­a generic term for light refreshments.”

Peter laughed, and amended his order.

“Do you see those three innocent darlings playing together, under the eye of their governess, by the Wellingtonia yonder?” enquired the lady.

“The little girl in white and the two boys?” asked Peter.

“Precisely,” said she.  “Such as they are, they’re me own.”

“Really?” he responded, in the tone of profound and sympathetic interest we are apt to affect when parents begin about their children.

“I give you my word for it,” she assured him.  “But I mention the fact, not in a spirit of boastfulness, but merely to show you that I ’m not entirely alone and unprotected.  There’s an American at our hotel, by the bye, who goes up and down telling every one who’ll listen that it ought to be Washingtonia, and declaiming with tears in his eyes against the arrogance of the English in changing Washington to Wellington.  As he’s a respectable-looking man with grown-up daughters, I should think very likely he’s right.”