He sat by the open window listening absently to the talk of his friend Rennie; the air out over the garden beyond them was bright with the strong spring sunshine; but nothing anywhere was brighter than the eyes of the American girl as she came in and gave them greeting. She was charming, in her lively Parisian travelling dress of blue silk, as knowingly scant as any other of her dresses; her slim and rakish black slippers glittered below the fine long shapes of silk stockings that left some doubt of their being stockings at all; her silken blue helmet disclosed just two small curved glints of her fair hair before her hidden ears; and at her waist she wore a cluster of diminutive fresh pink roses.
She spoke first to Rennie: "So sweet of you to send me these!" She touched her bouquet as she sat down between the two men. "The nicest possible bits of Raona one could take away! I'll keep them, Mr. Rennie; and when you come to New York, some day, if you want a reminder of your lovely garden here, I'll show them to you."
"Dear me!" Orbison said. "That's another advantage owning a villa gives a chap over one who merely sojourns at a hotel—a villa can have a garden. There isn't a florist in Raona, unfortunately."
