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Artois found himself wondering why, until Doro had made the
acquaintance of the dwellers on the island, he had never wished to
smack his smooth, complacent cheeks.
They turned from the sea into the broad walk of the Villa, and walked
towards the kiosk. Near it, on the small, green chairs, were some
ladies swathed in gigantic floating-veils, talking to two or three
very smart young men in white suits and straw hats, who leaned forward
eying them steadily with a determined yet rather vacuous boldness that
did not disconcert them. One of the ladies, dressed in black-and-white
check, was immensely stout. She seemed to lead the conversation, which
was carried on with extreme vivacity in very loud and not melodious
voices.
"Ecco the gathering of the geese!" said the Marchesino, touching
Artois on the arm. "And that"--he pointed to the stout lady, who at
this moment tossed her head till her veil swung loose like a sail
suddenly deserted by the wind--"is the goose-mother. Buona sera,
Marchesa! Buona sera--molto piacere.


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