Slow though their march had been, by this time they had come to the end of the avenue, and were in the wide circular sweep before the castle.  They stopped here, and stood looking off over the garden, with its sombre cypresses and bright beds of geranium, down upon the valley, dim and luminous in a mist of gold.  Great, heavy, fantastic-shaped clouds, pearl-white with pearl-grey shadows, piled themselves up against the scintillant dark blue of the sky.  In and out among the rose-trees near at hand, where the sun was hottest, heavily flew, with a loud bourdonnement, the cockchafers promised by Annunziata,—­big, blundering, clumsy, the scorn of their light-winged and business-like competitors, the bees.  Lizards lay immobile as lizards cast in bronze, only their little glittering, watchful pin-heads of eyes giving sign of life.  And of course the blackcaps never for a moment left off singing.

They stood side by side, within a yard of each other, in silent contemplation of these things, during I don’t know how many long and, for John, delicious seconds.  Yes, he owned it to himself; it was delicious to feel her standing there beside him, in silent communion with him, contemplating the same things, enjoying the same pleasantnesses.  Companionship—­companionship:  it was what he had been unconsciously needing all along! ...  At last she turned, and, withdrawing her eyes lingeringly from the landscape, looked into his, with a smile.  She did not speak, but her smile said, just as explicitly as her lips could have done, “What a scene of beauty!”

And John responded aloud, with fervour, “Indeed, indeed it is.”

“And so romantic,” she added.  “It is like a scene out of some old high musical romance.”

“The most romantic scene I know,” said he.  “All my life I have thought so.”

“Oh?” said she, looking surprise.  “Have you known it all your life?”

“Well,—­very nearly,” said he, with half a laugh.  “I saw it first when I was ten.  Then for long years I lost it,—­and only recovered it, by accident, a month ago.”

Her face showed her interest.  “Oh?  How was that?  How did it happen?”

“When I was ten,” John recounted, half laughing again, “I was travelling with my father, and, among the many places we visited, one seemed to me a very vision of romance made real.  A vast and stately castle, in a garden, in a valley, with splendid halls and chambers, and countless beautiful pictures of women.  All my life I remembered it, dreamed of it, longed to see it again.  But I hadn’t a notion where it was, save vaguely that it was somewhere in Italy; and, my poor father being dead, there was no one I could ask.  Then, wandering in these parts a month ago, I stumbled upon it, and recognized it.  Though shrunken a good deal in size, to be sure, it was still recognizable, and as romantic as ever.”

Maria Dolores listened pensively.  When he had reached his period, her eyes lighted up.  “What a charming adventure!” she said.  “And so, for you, besides its general romance, the place has a personal one, all your own.  I, too, have known it for long years, but only from photographs.  I suppose I should never have seen the real thing, except for a friend of mine coming to live here.”