"
He spoke with a sort of wistful whimsicality. Carey stared hard at him.
"A Campo Santo's a place for the dead."
"Why not for the dying? Don't they need holy ground as much?"
"And where's this holy ground of yours?"
Sir Donald got up from his chair, went over to the bureau, opened a
drawer, and took out of it a large photograph rolled round a piece of
wood, which he handed to Carey, who swiftly spread it out on his knees.
"That is it."
"I say, Sir Donald, d'you mind my asking for a whisky-and-soda?"
"I beg your pardon."
He hastily touched a bell and ordered it. Meanwhile Carey examined the
photograph.
"What do you think of it?" Sir Donald asked.
"Well--Italy obviously."
"Yes, and a conventional part of Italy."
"Maggiore?"
"No, Como."
"The playground of the honeymoon couple."
"Not where my Campo Santo is. They go to Cadenabbia, Bellagio, Villa
D'Este sometimes."
"I see the fascination. But it looks haunted. You've bought it?"
"Yes. The matter was arranged to-day."
The photograph showed a large, long house, or rather two houses divided
by a piazza with slender columns. In the foreground was water. Through
the arches of the piazza water was also visible, a cascade falling in the
black cleft of a mountain gorge dark with the night of cypresses. To the
right of the house, rising from the lake, was a tall old wall overgrown
with masses of creeping plants and climbing roses.
Pages:
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110