the blue of the bay, wondered what romances were dancing on the decks of
the great white liners that steamed in from America to tour the
Mediterranean, laughed with joy over the antics of the children who played
on the slopes below the garden, and glowed with the vigour of the sturdy
peasants who bore their baskets of fish, or flowers, or their bundles of
firewood, up or down the lanes which her terraces overlooked. There was one
wrinkled fish- wife who was perfectly delightful: old and worn with a
lifetime of toil, she was as cheerful as the day was long; bowed down as she
was by her glittering burden, she never failed to stop and wave a hand, and
cry "God bless you, pretty lady, and send you safe and happy day!" with the
frank warmth of the Italian peasant.
The world was a fine place, after all, and Cyril Grey was the dearest boy in
it, and herself the happiest woman. [291]