The Place of Honeymoons

s, the crown of Italy, a corn-flower sapphire known as Como. Over and about it-this terrace-poets have raved and tousled their neglected locks in vain to find the perfect phrasing; novelists h

amer to Menaggio. Eros was not born in Greece: of all barren mountains, unstirring, Hymettus, or Olympus, or whatever they called it in the day

ows of grape-vines, terraced downward; there are purple figs and white and ruby mulberries. Around and about, rising sheer from the waters, wherever the eye may rove, heaven-touching, salmon-tinted mountains abound, with scarfs of f

ell trodden by the devoteés of Eros. The call of love is heard here; the echoes to-day reverberate with the impassioned declarations of yesterday. The Englishman's reserve melts, the American f

hears its soft music at all times. Along the terrace parapet are tea-tables; a monster oak protects one from the sun. If one (or two) lingers over tea and cakes, one may witness the fiery la

ndly and humorous. One knew, from the tint of his blue eyes and the quirk of his lips, that when he spoke there would be a bit of brogue. He was James Harrigan, one time celebrated in the ring for his gameness, his squareness, his endurance; "Battling Jimmie" Harrigan, who, when he encountered his first knock-out, retired from the ring. He had to his credit sixty-one battles, of which he had easily won forty. He had been outpointed in some and

bles under the very posts, the cheers as he took his corner and scraped his shoes in the powdered resin, the padded gloves thrown down in the center of the canvas which was already scarred and soiled

oad and stubby and powerful, had not been trained to the delicate task of tying a bow-knot. By a judicious blow in that spot where the ribs divaricate he could right well tie his adversary into a bow-knot, but this string of white lawn was a most damnable thing. Still, the puttering of the two women, their daily concern over his deportment, was bringing him into conformity with social usages. That he naturally despised the articles of such a soulless faith was evident in his constant inclination to play hooky. One thin

't making much headway. He was Italian to the core, for all that he aped the English style and manner. He could speak the tongue with fluency, but he stumbled and faltered miserably over th

a third man. He was in the act of f

chel stirred. The Italian slowly closed his book and permitted his chair to settle on its four legs. The artist stood up from his paintbox. From a window in the villa came a voice; only a lilt of a melody, no words,-half a

ritz; her

ver the path toward the villa and disappeared into the doorway. Nothing could keep

ou merry little dachel! Frit

his own grew twisted. He stooped over his materials again and tied

r dinner, Mr. Ha

ed to the unvarying statement that Abbott would be up after dinner, that his r

on't think she ought to sing

er mind to sing. There's nothing for us t

N

ou know wh

ha

come across

t New York,

hap's alibi was on the level. I wish I'd been in Paris. There'd been something doing. And who was he? They refuse to give his name. And I can't g

sted her while she was a captive, you coul

s nerve, t

o that far isn't subject to any derangement of

two rubbers ha

ence down by many steps to the village by the waterside,

none herself-nature produced the prodigy. Ancestry was nothing; habits, intelligence, physical appearance counted for naught. Harrigan was a fine specimen of the physical man, yes; but to be the father of a woman who was as beautiful as the legendary goddesses and who possessed a voice incomparable in the living history of

," said the Italian, pau

me up in Marienbad a few weeks ago, and I'm not over it yet. It's n

half a dozen times, but each time the Barone f

herself? She is-what do you call?-bitter. She l

over that rumpu

mpu

abduc

nother word for abduc

t makes a noise, calls in the police. You can make a

hend," hurriedly. He comprehended noth

erves. And to think that you called

been there t

the action of the fellow. Never showed u

s, too, men grow mad at once, and they do things in their madness. Ah, she is so beautiful! She is a nightingale." The Italian looked down on Como whose b

mutely but expressively for the throat of the man who dared. "It'll never happen again. Her mother and I are not going away from her any more. When she sings in Berlin, I'm goin

d the Barone gravely. It had been

perfunctorily. "Well, I suppose I've got to dress for supper," resentfully. He still called it supper; and, as in the matter of the silk hat, his wife n

e dancing at Cad

like a bull in a china-shop. Abbott is coming up to

confused, however. Abbott had been invited to the dance. Why wasn't he going? Could it be true? Ha

ere as far back as they could go with any certainty? Was he not his own master? What titled woman of his acquaintance whose forebears had been powerful in the days of the Borgias, was not dimmed in the presence of this wonderful maid to whom all things had b

maids must look, though only Eros knows why! Evidently there was no answer to the Italian's question, for he faced

... che bel

ess touches of the hand; by these must a maid be won to-day. When she was happy she sang, when she was sad, when she was only mischievous. She was just as likely to sing O terra addio when she was happy as O sole mio when she

hinged. The porter and the director recognized a personage; the proprietor recognized the man. It was of no consequence that the new arrival called himself Herr Rosen. He was assigned to a suite of rooms, and on returning to the bureau, the proprietor squinted his eyes abstractedly. He knew

rietor threw up his hands in despair. What was going to happen to the peace of this bucolic spot? The you