The Cafe of the simple inn where they stayed was the meeting place of the notabilities of the little city； the Sindaco， the avvocato， the doctor， and a few others； and among them they noticed a beautiful， slim， talkative old man， with bright black eyes and snow-white hair — tall and straight and still with the figure of a youth， although the waiter told them with pride that the Conte was molto vecchio — would in fact be eighty in the following year. He was the last of his family， the waiter added — they had once been great and rich people — but he had no descendants； in fact the waiter mentioned with complacency， as if it were a story on which the locality prided itself， that the Conte had been unfortunate in love， and had never married.
The old gentleman， however， seemed cheerful enough； and it was plain that he took an interest in the strangers， and wished to make their acquaintance. This was soon effected by the friendly waiter； and after a little talk the old man invited them to visit his villa and garden which were just outside the walls of the town. So the next afternoon， when the sun began to descend， and they saw in glimpses through door-ways and windows， blue shadows beginning to spread over the brown mountains， they went to pay their visit. It was not much of a place， a small， modernized， stucco villa， with a hot pebbly garden， and in it a stone basin with torpid gold-fish， and a statue of Diana and her hounds against the wall. But what gave a glory to it was a gigantic rose-tree which clambered over the house， almost smothering the windows， and filling the air with the perfume of its sweetness. Yes， it was a fine rose， the Conte said proudly when they praised it， and he would tell the Signora about it. And as they sat there， drinking the wine he offered them， he alluded with the cheerful indifference of old age to his love-affair， as though he took for granted that they had heard of it already.
“The lady lived across the valley there beyond that hill. I was a young man then， for it was many years ago. I used to ride over to see her； it was a long way， but I rode fast， for young men， as no doubt the Signora knows， are impatient. But the lady was not kind， she would keep me waiting， oh， for hours； and one day when I had waited very long I grew very angry， and as I walked up and down in the garden where she had told me she would see me， I broke one of her roses， broke a branch from it ； and when I saw what I had done， I hid it inside my coat — so —； and when I came home I planted it， and the Signora sees how it has grown. If the Signora admires it， I must give her a cutting to plant also in her garden； I am told the English have beautiful gardens that are green， and not burnt with the sun like ours.”
The next day， when their mended carriage had come up to fetch them， and they were just starting to drive away from the inn， the Conte’s old servant appeared with the rose-cutting neatly wrapped up， and the compliments and wishes for a buon viaggio from her master. The town collected to see them depart， and the children heard a rush of feet behind them for a few moments， but soon they were far down towards the valley； the little town with all its noise and life was high above them on its mountain peak.
She had planted the rose at home， where it had grown and flourished in a wonderful manner； and every June the great mass of leaves and shoots still broke out into a passionate splendor of scent and crimson color， as if in its root and fibres there still burnt the anger and thwarted desire of that Italian lover. Of course the old Conte must have died many years ago； she had forgotten his name， and had even forgotten the name of the mountain city that she had stayed in， after first seeing it twinkling at dawn in the sky， like a nest of stars.
