nullity nihil.

'_Mais_,' said the Signore, starting from his scene of ignominy, where
his wife played with another man's child, '_mais--voulez-vous vous
promener dans mes petites terres?_'

It came out fluently, he was so much roused in self-defence and
self-assertion.

We walked under the pergola of bony vine-stocks, secure in the sunshine
within the walls, only the long mountain, parallel with us, looking in.

I said how I liked the big vine-garden, I asked when it ended. The pride
of the padrone came back with a click. He pointed me to the terrace, to
the great shut lemon-houses above. They were all his. But--he shrugged
his Italian shoulders--it was nothing, just a little garden, _vous
savez, monsieur_. I protested it was beautiful, that I loved it, and
that it seemed to me _very_ large indeed. He admitted that today,
perhaps, it was beautiful.

'_Perche--parce que--il fait un tempo--cosi--tres bell'--tres beau,
ecco!_'

He alighted on the word _beau_ hurriedly, like a bird coming to ground
with a little bounce.

The terraces of the garden are held up to the sun, the sun falls full
upon them, they are like a vessel slanted up, to catch the superb, heavy
light. Within the walls we are remote, perfect, moving in heavy spring
sunshine, under the bony avenue of vines. The padrone makes little