“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 ran after their carriage through the gate of the little city. They heard a rush of feet behind them for a few moments， but soon they were far down toward 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 f？lourished in a wonderful manner； and every June the great mass of leaves and shoots still broke out into a passionate splendour of scent and crimson colour， as if in its root and f？ibres 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 f？irst seeing it twinkling at dawn in the sky， like a nest of stars.