At the end of the grove, half a dozen broad stone steps dip down to a tiny harbour which is carpeted on the surface with lily pads.
The steps are worn by the lapping waves of fifty years, and are grown over with slippery, slimy water weeds.
The world was just stirring from its afternoon siesta, when the _Farfalla_ dropped her yellow sails and floated into the shady little harbour.

Giuseppe prodded and pushed along the fern-grown banks until the keel jolted against the water-steps.

He sprang ashore and steadied the boat while Constance alighted.

She slipped on the mossy step--almost went under--and righted herself with a laugh that rang gaily through the grove.
She came up the steps still smiling, shook out her fluffy pink skirts, straightened her rose-trimmed hat, and glanced reconnoitringly about the grove.

One might reasonably expect, attacking the hotel as it were from the flank, to capture unawares any stray guest.