A TUSCAN VILLINO 



noisy Florentine streets, It was just the time of year 

 when the Iris was flooding the land with its penetrating 

 and yet not sickly sweetness. There never was any scent 

 so perfect. And the small pink roses were flinging them- 

 selves over the tops of tall garden walls, as if the prodigal 

 Italian springtide had been at its full and left a foam of 

 bloom behind it. Up, up the mountain road, between 

 uncompromising walls and out into the freer country 

 and there was the farmhouse ! Its garden has left an odd 

 blurred impression on our minds : vaguely a path bordered 

 by lush grass and gay with Apple trees there was a storm 

 brewing, and all was black overhead / under the weird sky 

 the delicate blossoms took a curious vividness like minute 

 paintings. 



One had to go across a red-brick kitchen to get to the 

 stairs that led to the two long, quaint, cool rooms, in 

 the farther of which the hostess sat. 

 She had kept the charm of simplicity there. Plain white 

 walls and rather empty spaces, with bits of Italian black 

 oak, and a painting or two / a vase of lilac, a dim missal 

 warmth of colour in the Persian carpets that lay on the 

 bricks that was the picture. A very pleasant impression 

 those rooms made, with the old great lady in her high-backed 

 chair, clad in flowing black satin and with a white lace 

 that framed a face as fresh as the apple blossom without. 

 The storm broke as we sat there. She was nervous, and 

 so were some of her visitors/ therefore sne had the 

 wooden shutters closed. Perhaps she was not really 

 frightened, for she was as sturdy a Scotchwoman as ever 

 we beheld, and her bright blue eye was stern in spite of her 

 affability. Perhaps she only compassionated the nerves of 



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