charge was asking him.
“Yes, thank you, a very good journey,” Wynstan replied.
“You require wine or refreshment, Signor ?”
“Not for the moment,” Wynstan answered. “Where is Miss Milton?”
“You will find her in the garden, Signor. The Signorina arrived three days ago. She has spent all her time in the garden and she finds it very beautiful— bellissima ! We are glad she is pleased!”
“I will find her,” Wynstan said.
Bare-headed he walked out into a blaze of colour. The terraces which climbed the hill to the right of the Villa looked like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.
The scent of tuberoses, lilacs and lilies filled the air, and under the olive trees sloping down to the plain, the grass was carpeted with hyacinths. Everywhere there was a profusion of tulips, peonies and daffodils.
The almond trees which were the first to bloom had already shed their petals, Wynstan noticed, and there was a carpet of pink and white blossoms beneath them.
The branches of the Judas tree were purple against the sky, the laburnums cascaded like golden rain, and beyond them the mimosa was a yellow cloud.
He looked around and realised that as the sun was sinking, the flame-coloured azaleas were echoed by what appeared to be flames of fire rising in the sky.
He moved forward, knowing almost instinctively where Larina Milton would be at this time of the evening.
Always at sunset anyone who stayed in the Villa climbed up the twisting stone steps of the hanging gardens to where high above the Villa on a promontory overlooking the sea there was an ancient Temple.
It had been built, Wynstan’s grandfather had discovered, by Greeks, and he had restored it without knowing to which god it was dedicated.
Then in the last year of his life, when they were digging to extend the garden further, they had found a statue.
Time and weather had refined the whiteness of the marble, rain and sun had brought colour to it so that it almost resembled flesh.
It was not greatly damaged, except that it had lost its arms and the features of the face were obliterated, but it had a beauty and a grace that was breathtaking.
The legs were veiled with a loose garment which began below the hips, the exquisite curves of the breasts and the lines of the lower body were undamaged. The whole statue made anyone who looked at it draw in their breath as if they had never believed such beauty existed.
“It is Aphrodite!” Wynstan’s grandfather had declared. “The goddess of beauty, love and reproduction!”
“How can you be sure of that?” Wynstan had asked.
He had been fifteen at the time and pleased because his grandfather talked to him as if he were a grown man.
“Can you not see just by looking at her, that she could be nothing else?” the old man had enquired. “She was born in the sea-foam and she stood here in her Temple overlooking the sea, bringing happiness and prosperity to those who toiled on it.”
Wynstan had looked for a long time at the goddess whom his grandfather had set on a marble pedestal.
He had grown lilies on either side of her because lilies, he said, were the right flowers for Aphrodite.
“Why particularly?” Wynstan enquired.
“Because they are always the symbol of purity,” his grandfather had answered. “To the Greeks the goddess of love was not a many-breasted matron, but a young virgin rising out of the waves.”
He had paused to stare at the statue of Aphrodite. Her head was turned to the right of her body, and although she had no remaining features it was somehow easy to imagine them.
The little straight nose, the wide, innocent eyes, the softly curved lips!
“In a sense the Greeks invented virginity for their goddesses,” old Mr. Vanderfeld went on. “To them it was fresh, clean and full of promise like the coming of each day.”
He saw that Wynstan was listening intently and continued:
“Aphrodite was a grey-eyed goddess, untouched and part of every man’s dreams. She brought all that
“Yes, thank you, a very good journey,” Wynstan replied.
“You require wine or refreshment, Signor ?”
“Not for the moment,” Wynstan answered. “Where is Miss Milton?”
“You will find her in the garden, Signor. The Signorina arrived three days ago. She has spent all her time in the garden and she finds it very beautiful— bellissima ! We are glad she is pleased!”
“I will find her,” Wynstan said.
Bare-headed he walked out into a blaze of colour. The terraces which climbed the hill to the right of the Villa looked like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.
The scent of tuberoses, lilacs and lilies filled the air, and under the olive trees sloping down to the plain, the grass was carpeted with hyacinths. Everywhere there was a profusion of tulips, peonies and daffodils.
The almond trees which were the first to bloom had already shed their petals, Wynstan noticed, and there was a carpet of pink and white blossoms beneath them.
The branches of the Judas tree were purple against the sky, the laburnums cascaded like golden rain, and beyond them the mimosa was a yellow cloud.
He looked around and realised that as the sun was sinking, the flame-coloured azaleas were echoed by what appeared to be flames of fire rising in the sky.
He moved forward, knowing almost instinctively where Larina Milton would be at this time of the evening.
Always at sunset anyone who stayed in the Villa climbed up the twisting stone steps of the hanging gardens to where high above the Villa on a promontory overlooking the sea there was an ancient Temple.
It had been built, Wynstan’s grandfather had discovered, by Greeks, and he had restored it without knowing to which god it was dedicated.
Then in the last year of his life, when they were digging to extend the garden further, they had found a statue.
Time and weather had refined the whiteness of the marble, rain and sun had brought colour to it so that it almost resembled flesh.
It was not greatly damaged, except that it had lost its arms and the features of the face were obliterated, but it had a beauty and a grace that was breathtaking.
The legs were veiled with a loose garment which began below the hips, the exquisite curves of the breasts and the lines of the lower body were undamaged. The whole statue made anyone who looked at it draw in their breath as if they had never believed such beauty existed.
“It is Aphrodite!” Wynstan’s grandfather had declared. “The goddess of beauty, love and reproduction!”
“How can you be sure of that?” Wynstan had asked.
He had been fifteen at the time and pleased because his grandfather talked to him as if he were a grown man.
“Can you not see just by looking at her, that she could be nothing else?” the old man had enquired. “She was born in the sea-foam and she stood here in her Temple overlooking the sea, bringing happiness and prosperity to those who toiled on it.”
Wynstan had looked for a long time at the goddess whom his grandfather had set on a marble pedestal.
He had grown lilies on either side of her because lilies, he said, were the right flowers for Aphrodite.
“Why particularly?” Wynstan enquired.
“Because they are always the symbol of purity,” his grandfather had answered. “To the Greeks the goddess of love was not a many-breasted matron, but a young virgin rising out of the waves.”
He had paused to stare at the statue of Aphrodite. Her head was turned to the right of her body, and although she had no remaining features it was somehow easy to imagine them.
The little straight nose, the wide, innocent eyes, the softly curved lips!
“In a sense the Greeks invented virginity for their goddesses,” old Mr. Vanderfeld went on. “To them it was fresh, clean and full of promise like the coming of each day.”
He saw that Wynstan was listening intently and continued:
“Aphrodite was a grey-eyed goddess, untouched and part of every man’s dreams. She brought all that
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