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We could see its great round towers, standing grim and gray on the
hillside commanding the whole of the valley, long before we approached
it, and when we drove into the grounds we found a gay party in summer
toilettes assembled on the ancient bowling-green, now transformed into a
modern tennis-lawn.
Mrs. Leithcourt and her husband, a tall, thin, gray-headed, well-dressed
man, both came forward to greet us, and after a few introductions I
joined a set at tennis. They were a merry crowd. The Leithcourts were
entertaining a large house-party, and their hospitality was on a scale
quite in keeping with the fine old place they rented.
Tea was served on the lawn by the footmen, and afterwards, being tired
of the game, I found myself strolling with Muriel Leithcourt, a bright,
dark-eyed girl with tightly-bound hair, and wearing a cotton blouse and
flannel tennis skirt.
I was apologizing for my terribly bad play, explaining that I had no
practice out in Italy, whereupon she said--
"I know Italy slightly.


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