Page 43 (1/2)

Leaning back in an iron chair, with his shoulders resting against the oak,

was anotherover the

pages of Bagot's Italian Lakes, and he wasn'tmuch headway He

was Italian to the core, for all that he aped the English style and

ue with fluency, but he stumbled and

faltered miserably over the soundless type His clothes had the Piccadilly

cut, and his mustache, erstwhile waxed and hly insular He was thirty, and undeniably handsoreen, was a thirdup an easel and a caone It was time for the first bell for dinner The

villa's orape-vines

Suddenly Harrigan tilted his head sidewise, and the long silken ears of

the dachel stirred The Italian slowly closed his book and pers The artist stood up from his paintbox

From ain the villa came a voice; only a lilt of a melody, no

words,--half a dozen bars frohtful note went

deep into the three

The Italian scowled at the vegetable garden directly below The artist

scowled at the Italian

"Fritz, Fritz; here, Fritz!"

The dog struggled in Harrigan's hands and tore hi over the path toward the villa and disappeared into the

doorway Nothing could keep him when that voice called He was as ardent a

lover as any, and far ! You o!" Silence