For a moment, he entertained the uncomfortable
fear that the artist, in a spirit of sheer boyish fun that so often moved
him, would bring Mrs. Taine to the garden. But the moment passed, and the
novelist,--mentally blessing the young man for his forbearance,--with a
chuckle of satisfaction, lighted his pipe and opened his book. Scarcely
had he found his place in the pages, however, when he was again
interrupted--this time, by the welcome tones of their neighbor's violin.
Putting his book aside, the man reclining in the shelter of the roses,
with half-closed eyes, yielded himself to the fancy of the spirit that
called from the depths of the fragrant orange grove.
The mass of roses in the hedge and on the wall of the studio above his
head dropped their lovely petals down upon him. The warm, slanting rays of
the afternoon sun, softened by the screen of shining leaves and branches,
played over the bewildering riot of color. Here and there, golden-bodied
bees and velvet-winged butterflies flitted about their fairy-like duties.
Far above, in the deep blue, a hawk floated on motionless wings and a
lonely crow laid his course toward the distant mountain peaks that
gleamed, silvery white, above the blue and purple of the lower ridges and
the tawny yellow of their foothills.
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