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Never before in the history of his connection with the Hotel du Lac had Gustavo encountered such a munificent, companionable, expansive, entertaining, ‘thoroughly’ unique and inexplicable guest Even the fact that he was American scarcely accounted for everything. Yesterday this guest had rung the bell and demanded a partner to play lawn tennis – as if the hotel kept partners laid away in drawers like so many sheets. The guest, Jerymn Hilliard, Jr., is unexpectedly at loose ends in tiny Valedolmo. He has seen all the ‘Baedeker’ sights already… Then he learns that in a rose-colored villa, surrounded with cypress and with a ‘terrazzo’ on the lake, lives another American – one with a daughter: a Signorina Constantina: ‘beautiful like the angels in Paradise.The courtyard of the Hotel du Lac, furnished with half a dozen tables and chairs, a red and green parrot chained to a perch, and a shady little arbour covered with vines, is a pleasant enough place for morning coffee, but decidedly too sunny for afternoon tea. It was close upon four of a July day, when Gustavo, his inseparable napkin floating from his arm, emerged from the cool dark doorway of the house and scanned the burning vista of tables and chairs. He would never, under ordinary circumstances, have interrupted his siesta for the mere delivery of a letter; but this particular letter was addressed to the young American man, and young American men, as every head waiter knows, are an unreasonably impatient lot. The courtyard was empty, as he might have foreseen, and he was turning with a patient sigh towards the long arbour that led to the lake, when the sound of a rustling paper in the summer-house deflected his course. He approached the doorway and looked inside.The young American man, in white flannels with a red guide-book protruding from his pocket, was comfortably stretched in a lounging chair engaged with a cigarette and a copy of the Paris Herald. He glanced up with a yawn–excusable under the circumstances–but as his eye fell upon the letter he sprang to his feet.‘Hello, Gustavo! Is that for me?’Gustavo bowed.‘Ecco! She is at last arrive, ze lettair for which you haf so moch weesh.’ He bowed a second time and presented it. ‘Meestair Jayreen Ailyar!’The young man laughed.‘I don’t wish to hurt your feelings, Gustavo, but I’m not sure I should answer if my eyes were shut.’He picked up the letter, glanced at the address to make sure–the name was Jerymn Hilliard, Jr.–and ripped it open with an exaggerated sigh of relief. Then he glanced up and caught Gustavo’s expression. Gustavo came of a romantic race; there was a gleam of sympathetic interest in his eye. ‘Oh, you needn’t look so knowing! I suppose you think this is a love-letter? Well it’s not. It is, since you appear to be interested, a letter from my sister informing me that they will arrive to-night, and that we will pull out for Riva by the first boat to-morrow morning. Not that I want to leave you, Gustavo, but–Oh thunder!’He finished the reading in a frowning silence while the waiter stood at polite attention, a shade of anxiety in his eye–there was usually anxiety in his eye when it rested on Jerymn Hilliard, Jr. One could never foresee what the young man would call for next. Yesterday he had rung the bell and demanded a partner to play lawn tennis, as if the hotel kept partners laid away in drawers like so many sheets.

Jean Webster (pseudonym for Alice Jane Chandler Webster, July 24, 1876 – June 11, 1916) was an American writer and author of many books including Daddy-Long-Legs and Dear Enemy. Her best-known books feature lively and likeable young female protagonists who come of age intellectually, morally, and socially, but with enough humor, snappy dialogue, and gently biting social commentary to make her books palatable and enjoyable to contemporary readers. Alice Jane Chandler Webster was born in Fredonia, New York. She was the eldest child of Annie Moffet Webster and Charles Luther Webster. She lived her early childhood in a strongly matriarchal and activist setting, with her great-grandmother, grandmother and mother all living under the same roof. Her great-grandmother worked on temperance issues and her grandmother on racial equality and women's suffrage.

Never before in the history of his connection with the Hotel du Lac had Gustavo encountered such a munificent, companionable, expansive, entertaining, ‘thoroughly’ unique and inexplicable guest Even the fact that he was American scarcely accounted for everything. Yesterday this guest had rung the bell and demanded a partner to play lawn tennis – as if the hotel kept partners laid away in drawers like so many sheets. The guest, Jerymn Hilliard, Jr., is unexpectedly at loose ends in tiny Valedolmo. He has seen all the ‘Baedeker’ sights already… Then he learns that in a rose-colored villa, surrounded with cypress and with a ‘terrazzo’ on the lake, lives another American – one with a daughter: a Signorina Constantina: ‘beautiful like the angels in Paradise,’

The courtyard of the Hotel du Lac, furnished with half a dozen tables and chairs, a red and green parrot chained to a perch, and a shady little arbour covered with vines, is a pleasant enough place for morning coffee, but decidedly too sunny for afternoon tea. It was close upon four of a July day, when Gustavo, his inseparable napkin floating from his arm, emerged from the cool dark doorway of the house and scanned the burning vista of tables and chairs. He would never, under ordinary circumstances, have interrupted his siesta for the mere delivery of a letter; but this particular letter was addressed to the young American man, and young American men, as every head waiter knows, are an unreasonably impatient lot. The courtyard was empty, as he might have foreseen, and he was turning with a patient sigh towards the long arbour that led to the lake, when the sound of a rustling paper in the summer-house deflected his course. He approached the doorway and looked inside. The young American man, in white flannels with a red guide-book protruding from his pocket, was comfortably stretched in a lounging chair engaged with a cigarette and a copy of the Paris Herald. He glanced up with a yawn—excusable under the circumstances—but as his eye fell upon the letter he sprang to his feet

We are delighted to publish this classic book as part of our extensive classic literature collection. This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Unlike some other reproductions of classic texts, We have not used OCR(Optical Character Recognition), as this leads to bad quality books with introduced typos. Also in books where there are images such as portraits, maps, sketches etc We have endeavoured to keep the quality of these images, so they represent accurately the original artefact. Although occasionally there may be certain imperfections with these old texts, we feel they deserve to be made available for future generations to enjoy. We use state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.Never before in the history of his connection with the Hotel du Lac had Gustavo encountered such a munificent, companionable, expansive, entertaining, ‘thoroughly’ unique and inexplicable guest Even the fact that he was American scarcely accounted for everything. Yesterday this guest had rung the bell and demanded a partner to play lawn tennis – as if the hotel kept partners laid away in drawers like so many sheets. The guest, Jerymn Hilliard, Jr., is unexpectedly at loose ends in tiny Valedolmo. He has seen all the ‘Baedeker’ sights already… Then he learns that in a rose-colored villa, surrounded with cypress and with a ‘terrazzo’ on the lake, lives another American – one with a daughter: a Signorina Constantina: ‘beautiful like the angels in Paradise,’

Never before in the history of his connection with the Hotel du Lac had Gustavo encountered such a munificent, companionable, expansive, entertaining, ‘thoroughly’ unique and inexplicable guest Even the fact that he was American scarcely accounted for everything. Yesterday this guest had rung the bell and demanded a partner to play lawn tennis – as if the hotel kept partners laid away in drawers like so many sheets. The guest, Jerymn Hilliard, Jr., is unexpectedly at loose ends in tiny Valedolmo. He has seen all the ‘Baedeker’ sights already… Then he learns that in a rose-colored villa, surrounded with cypress and with a ‘terrazzo’ on the lake, lives another American – one with a daughter: a Signorina Constantina: ‘beautiful like the angels in Paradise,’The courtyard of the Hotel du Lac, furnished with half a dozen tables and chairs, a red and green parrot chained to a perch, and a shady little arbour covered with vines, is a pleasant enough place for morning coffee, but decidedly too sunny for afternoon tea. It was close upon four of a July day, when Gustavo, his inseparable napkin floating from his arm, emerged from the cool dark doorway of the house and scanned the burning vista of tables and chairs. He would never, under ordinary circumstances, have interrupted his siesta for the mere delivery of a letter; but this particular letter was addressed to the young American man, and young American men, as every head waiter knows, are an unreasonably impatient lot. The courtyard was empty, as he might have foreseen, and he was turning with a patient sigh towards the long arbour that led to the lake, when the sound of a rustling paper in the summer-house deflected his course. He approached the doorway and looked inside.

The courtyard of the Hotel du Lac, furnished with half a dozen tables and chairs, a red and green parrot chained to a perch, and a shady little arbour covered with vines, is a pleasant enough place for morning coffee, but decidedly too sunny for afternoon tea. It was close upon four of a July day, when Gustavo, his inseparable napkin floating from his arm, emerged from the cool dark doorway of the house and scanned the burning vista of tables and chairs. He would never, under ordinary circumstances, have interrupted his siesta for the mere delivery of a letter; but this particular letter was addressed to the young American man, and young American men, as every head waiter knows, are an unreasonably impatient lot.

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