"Why not?" cried the priest, enraptured. "You could buy beautiful land,
a plateau of orange trees and olives, carpeted with violets--the petite
campagne I spoke of. You could build a villa, small enough to shut up
and put to sleep when you tired of it. We would be your caretakers, the
old Mademoiselle and I."
"Would you have me live in my villa alone?" Vanno smiled.
The cure looked merrily sly. "Why not with a bride?" he ventured. "Why
not follow your brother Angelo's example?"
"I must see his bride first, to judge whether his example is worth
following. We haven't met yet."
"Ah," exclaimed the priest, "that reminds me of rather a strange thing!
There came a lady here--but I will tell you, Principino, while we
lunch."
Beaming with pleasure in his hospitality, the cure ushered his guest
into the arbour, which, like a seabird's nest, almost overhung the
cliff. Under shelter of the thick old grapevine and a pink cataract of
roses, a common deal table was spread with coarse but spotless damask.
In a green saucer of peasant ware, one huge pink rose floated in water.
The effect was more charming than any bouquet. There was nothing to eat
but brown bread with creamy cheese, and grapes of a curious colour like
amber and amethysts melted and run together; yet to Vanno it seemed a
feast.
The cure explained that the grapes had been grown on this arbour, and
that he had them to eat and to give away, all winter. When the porcelain
doll of a woman came back, she brought a bottle of home-made wine for
Vanno, and some little sponge cakes.
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