All about them was the fragrance of the dewy, flower-scented summer night, the flash of fireflies, the chirp of crickets, occasionally the note of a nightingale.

Before them out of a cluster of cypresses, rose the square graceful outline of the village campanile.
Constance looked about with a pleased, contented sigh.
"Isn't Italy beautiful, Tony ?" "Yes, signorina, but I like America better." "We have no cypresses and ruins and nightingales in America, Tony.

We have a moon sometimes, but not that moon." They passed from the moonlight into the shade of some overhanging chestnut trees.

Fidilini stumbled suddenly over a break in the path and Tony pulled him up sharply.

His hand on the bridle rested for an instant over hers.
"Italy is beautiful--to make love in," he whispered.
She drew her hand away abruptly, and they passed out into the moonlight again.