A note was tied to the stems; his fingers trembled as he worked with the knot.
"_Caro Antonio mio_," it commenced; he could read that.

"_La sua Costantina_," it ended; he could read that.

But between the two was an elusive, tantalizing hiatus.

He studied it and put it in his pocket and took it out and studied it again.

He was still puzzling over it half an hour later when Gustavo came to inquire if the signore had need of anything.
Had he need of anything! He sent Gustavo flying to the stationer's in search of an Italian-English dictionary.
* * * * * It was four o'clock in the afternoon and all the world--except Constance--was taking a siesta.