either side, and looping bridges, that run straight, at right angles to the Grand Canal. The two women sat under the little awning, the man was perched above, behind them.
"Are the signorine staying long at the Villa Esmeralda?" he asked, rowing easy, and wiping his perspiring face with a white-and-blue handkerchief.
"Some twenty days: we are both married ladies," said Hilda, in her curious hushed voice, that made her Italian sound so foreign.
"Ah! Twenty days!" said the man. There was a pause. After which he asked: "Do the signore want a gondolier for the twenty days or so that they will stay at the Villa Esmeralda? Or by the day, or by the week?"
Connie and Hilda considered. In Venice, it is always preferable to have one's own gondola, as it is preferable to have one's own car on land.
"What is there at the Villa? what boats?"
"There is a motor-launch, also a gondola. But—" The but meant: they won't be your property.
"How much do you charge?"
It was about thirty shillings a day, or ten pounds a week.
"Is that the regular price?" asked Hilda.
"Less, Signora. The regular price—"
The sisters considered.
"Well," said Hilda, "come tomorrow morning, and we will arrange it. What is your name?"
His name was Giovanni, and he wanted to know at what time he should come, and then for whom should he say he was waiting. Hilda had no card. Connie gave him one of hers. He glanced at it swiftly, with his hot, southern blue eyes, then glanced again.
"Ah!" he said, lighting up, "Milady! Milady, isn't it?"
"Milady Costanza!" said Connie.
He nodded, repeating: "Milady Costanza!" and putting the card carefully away in his blouse.
The Villa Esmeralda was quite a long way out, on the edge of the lagoon looking towards Chioggia. It was not a very old house, and pleasant, with the terraces looking seawards, and below, quite a big garden with dark trees, walled in from the lagoon. Their host was a heavy, rather coarse Scotchman who had made a good fortune in Italy before the war, and had been knighted for
