"With the grey hills, and the snow-peaks, and the brilliant sky, with
the golden light and the purple shadows, and the cypresses and olives,
with the river gleaming below there amongst the peach-blossoms,
and--isn't that a blackcap singing in the mimosa? It only needs a pair
of lovers to be perfect--it _cries_ for a pair of lovers. And instead of
them, I find--what? A hermit and celibate. Look here. Make a clean
breast of it. _Are_ you cold-blooded?" she asked from over her shoulder.

John merely giggled.

"It would serve you right," said she, truculently, "if some one were to
rub your eyes with love-in-idleness, to make you dote upon the next
live creature that you see."

John merely chuckled.

"I'll tell you what," she proceeded, "I'm a bit of an old witch, and
I'll risk a soothword. As there isn't already a woman, there'll shortly
be one--my thumbs prick. The stage is set, the scene is too appropriate,
the play's inevitable. It was never in the will of Providence that a
youth of your complexion should pass the springtime in a spot all
teeming with romance like this, and miss a love adventure. A castle in a
garden, a flowering valley, and the Italian sky--the Italian sun and
moon! Your portraits of these smiling dead women too, if you like, to
keep your imagination working. And blackcaps singing in the mimosa. No,
no. The lady of the piece is waiting in the wings--my thumbs prick. Give
her but the least excuse, she'll enter, and ... Good Heavens, my
prophetic soul!" she suddenly, with a sort of catch in her throat, broke
off.