But any of the country people could tell him that this, too, is
Casa Signorile, spite of its smallness. It stands somewhat high above
the road, a square, white house with a projecting roof, and with four
green-shuttered windows overlooking the gay but narrow terrace. The beds
under the windows would have fulfilled the fancy of that French poet who
desired that in his garden one might, in gathering a nosegay, cull a
salad, for they boasted little else than sweet basil, small and white,
and some tall grey rosemary bushes. Nearer to the door an unusually
large oleander faced a strong and sturdy magnolia-tree, and these, with
their profusion of red and white sweetness, made amends for the dearth
of garden flowers. At either end of the terrace flourished a thicket of
gum-cistus, syringa, stephanotis, and geranium bushes, and the wall
itself, dropping sheer down to the road, was bordered with the customary
Florentine hedge of China roses and irises, now out of bloom. Great
terra-cotta flower-pots, covered with devices, were placed at intervals
along the wall; as it was summer, the oranges and lemons, full of
wonderfully sweet white blossoms and young green fruit, were set there
in the sun to ripen.
It was the 17th of June. Although it was after four o'clock, the olives
on the steep hill that went down to Florence looked blindingly white,
shadeless, and sharp.
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