Scarcely had he found his place in the pages, however, when he was again interrupted--this time, by the welcome tones of their neighbor's violin.
Putting his book aside, the man reclining in the shelter of the roses, with half-closed eyes, yielded himself to the fancy of the spirit that called from the depths of the fragrant orange grove.
The mass of roses in the hedge and on the wall of the studio above his head dropped their lovely petals down upon him.

The warm, slanting rays of the afternoon sun, softened by the screen of shining leaves and branches, played over the bewildering riot of color.

Here and there, golden-bodied bees and velvet-winged butterflies flitted about their fairy-like duties.
Far above, in the deep blue, a hawk floated on motionless wings and a lonely crow laid his course toward the distant mountain peaks that gleamed, silvery white, above the blue and purple of the lower ridges and the tawny yellow of their foothills.

The air was saturated with the fragrance of the rose and orange blossoms, of eucalyptus and pepper trees, and with the thousand other perfumes of a California spring.
The music ceased.

The man waited--hoping that it would begin again.