He had brought many folk to this discreet garden with its locked dining-rooms overlooking the gulf.

"A good appetite to you, _Signore_!" The old waiter who came to meet them on the little sloping footpath made the identical grimace as soon as he spied Ferragut.

"I have whatever the gentleman may need." And crossing a low, embowered terrace with various unoccupied tables, he opened a door and bade them enter a room having only one window.
Freya went instinctively toward it like an insect toward the light, leaving behind her the damp and gloomy room whose paper was hanging loose at intervals.

"How beautiful!" The gulf pictured through the window appeared like an unframed canvas,--the original, alive and palpitating,--of the infinite copies throughout the world.
Meanwhile the captain, while informing himself of the available dishes, was secretly following the discreet sign language of the waiter.

With one hand he was holding the door half open, his fingers fumbling with an enormous archaic bolt on the under side which had belonged to a much larger door and looked as though it were going to fall from the wood because of its excessive size....