She glanced down at a pink wicker-basket which hung on her arm, and gathered up her skirts with a movement of departure.
The young man hastily picked up the conversation.
'It _is_ a jolly old garden,' he affirmed.

'And there's something pathetic about its appearing on souvenir post cards as a mere adjunct to a blue and yellow hotel.' She nodded sympathetically.
'Built for romance and abandoned to tourists--German tourists at that!' 'Oh, not entirely--we've a Russian countess just now.' 'A Russian countess ?' Constance turned toward him with an air of reawakened interest.

'Is she as young and beautiful and fascinating and wicked as they always are in novels ?' 'Oh, dear no! Seventy, if she's a day.

A nice grandmotherly old soul who smokes cigarettes.' 'Ah!' Constance smiled; there was even a trace of relief in her manner as she nodded to the young man and turned away.

His face reflected his disappointment; he plainly wished to detain her, but could think of no expedient.