He had been told--though of course he did not believe it--that the Indians in America had red skins.
Constance nodded yes.

His eyes opened wider.
'Truly red like your coat ?' with a glance at her scarlet golf jacket.
'Not quite,' she admitted.
'But how it must be diverting,' he sighed, 'to travel the world over and see different things.' He fell silent and trudged on beside her, the wanderlust in his eyes.
It was almost dark when they reached the big arched gateway that led into the village.

Here their ways parted and they paused for farewell.
'Signorina,' the young man said suddenly, 'take me with you back to America.

I will prune your olive trees, I will tend your vines.

You can leave me in charge when you go on your travels.' She shook her head with a laugh.
'But I have no vines; I have no olive trees.