Her Italian, to an unaccustomed ear, was exactly as glib as theirs.
The washer-girls were dressed in the gayest of peasant clothes--green and scarlet petticoats, flowered kerchiefs, coral beads and flashing earrings; you would have to go far into the hills in these degenerate days before meeting their match on an Italian highway.

But the girl on the wall, who was actual if not titular ruler of the domain of Villa Rosa, possessed a keen eye for effect; and--she plausibly argued--since one must have washer-women about, why not, in the name of all that is beautiful, have them in harmony with tradition and the landscape?
Accordingly, she designed and purchased their costumes herself.
There drifted presently into sight from around the little promontory that hid the village a blue and white boat with yellow lateen sails.

She was propelled gondolier fashion, for the wind was a mere breath, by a picturesque youth in a suit of dark blue with white sash and flaring collar--the hand of the girl on the wall was here visible also.
The boat fluttering in toward shore, looked like a giant butterfly; and her name, emblazoned in gold on her prow, was, appropriately, the _Farfalla_.

Earlier in the season, with a green hull and a dingy brown sail, she had been, prosaically enough, the _Maria_.

But since the advent of the girl all this had been changed.