She, however, had no idea of doing anything of the sort. In the evening, a band of village musicians, accompanied by most of the young inhabitants of Willesden, strolled out to Dollis Hill, where they formed a rustic concert under the great elm before the door. “Hola Marteen!” She exclaimed cheerfully. I don’t care what else there is in the world. “I say!” he cried. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. He began a jerky, broken conversation that lasted until they reached the station, and left her puzzled at its drift and meaning.
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