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polyglot architecture. Squat, practical dwellings built of mud, and not terribly different from what Jenny
had seen in the southwestern parts of North America, contrasted vividly with the needle-pointed minarets
of the mosques.
Occasionally, they passed a house that would have been perfectly in place in London or Paris. Then
there were buildings that showed remnants of Roman construction. Whatever the style, balconies
overgrown with vines and flowers abounded. The variety was fascinating, but Jenny rapidly grew tired of
the dust and noise especially after how spoiled she had been on both train and steamship.
I m getting soft , she chided herself. This wouldn t have bothered me once at least, not so quickly.
If I want to prove myself fit to go with Uncle Neville, I need to show some backbone.
Despite this resolve, she was relieved when the carriage pulled into a curving driveway before a tidy
building faced with white stucco. The hotel s arching doorways and windows belonged to many regions
of the Mediterranean, but the style of the trim and the elaborate iron grills that latticed over the windows
somehow evoked Italy rather than Egypt.
Reaching from his box, the driver pulled a conveniently placed bell rope. A cascade of chimes rang out,
and the passengers had hardly begun to climb somewhat stiffly down from their seats when a small,
withered man with snowy white hair and beard, and piercing black eyes emerged from the wide front
door. He was tanned as darkly as the Arabs and wore a long, loose robe after their style of dress, but his
features were European.
Leonardo! Leonardo! he cried out in a sing-song voice that owed its music to Italian. You have come
back to your old friend at last. I had your letters and have set aside rooms for you and your companions.
Come inside out of the dust and introduce me.
The old man waved them ahead, stopping only to speak a few words to the carriage driver and baggage
porter. To Jenny s ear, his Arabic seemed as fluid and musical as his English.
Come in, come in out of the heat and the noise, the innkeeper urged, motioning for Emily and Bert to
join the others. The porters will do their job without your watching I know them. They are good men
and hard-working. Surely you need something refreshing to drink.
The servants obeyed, and soon they were all settled in a sitting room that was astonishingly comfortable,
especially in contrast with the dry dustiness outside. Jenny knew how well thick adobe insulated against
both heat and cold, but Stephen looked as astonished as if he d been subjected to a conjuring trick.
Ah, said their host, you notice how fine and pleasant it is. Enjoy. Now, Leonardo, though I think I can
guess, introduce me to my new friends.
Neville complied. This young lady is my niece, Genevieve Benet, the daughter of my late sister, Alice,
and her husband, Pierre. Jenny, this is Antonio Donati, a very old friend of mine.
Pleased to meet you, Mr. Donati, Jenny said, curtseying.
The old man s face crumpled. Please, Miss Benet, call me Papa Antonio, as my Leonardo did when he
was younger and not so grand.
Jenny smiled, I would be delighted, Papa Antonio. Would you please call me Jenny ? I get so tired of
all this Miss Benet stuff.
I, too, would be delighted, Papa Antonio replied. Now Leonardo, you move too slowly. This young
man like a flower in sunlight with his golden hair and beard, this must be Stephen Holmboe, the linguist.
Stephen bowed acknowledgment, saying something in what must have been Italian.
Papa Antonio beamed and turned to Emily and Bert. And these are the good people who care for you,
Mr. and Mrs. . . . Hamilton, yes? Now, take seats and I will give you chilled wine and perhaps some
bread and fruit to nibble, and you will tell me about your journey.
Jenny accepted the wine, noting with interest that the bottle had been kept cool in a small well at one
corner of the room.
Papa Antonio . . . she began.
He interrupted, his expression anxious. You perhaps do not like this wine? Perhaps as a young lady you
would prefer fruit juice or even tea?
The wine is wonderful, Jenny assured him.
Papa Antonio beamed. It is from Italia, from the vineyards of my own family. I, of course, am very
proud of it, but perhaps I think it is not to English tastes.
I am American, Jenny replied. And it would be excellent wine to anyone with taste. What I wanted to
ask is why do you call Uncle Neville Leonardo ?
She saw a half-smile quirk the corner of her uncle s mouth.
Ah, replied Papa Antonio with a wide flourish of his hand Neville that sounds to me like a horse.
Hawthorne is a tree, and this man is many things, but he is not stolid like a tree. He tells me his second
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