indows, quaint allegorical frescoes,
faded, half washed-out. And then there were entirely modern-looking
portions, of gleaming marble, with numberless fanciful carvings, spires,
pinnacles, reliefs--wonderfully light, gay, habitable, and (Peter
thought) beautiful, in the clear Italian atmosphere, against the blue
Italian sky.

"It's a perfect house for her," he said. "It suits her--like an
appropriate garment; it almost seems to express her."

And all the while, as he proceeded, her voice kept sounding in his ears;
scraps of her conversation, phrases that she had spoken, kept coming
back to him.

One end of the long, wide marble terrace had been arranged as a sort
of out-of-door living-room. A white awning was stretched overhead;
warm-hued rugs were laid on the pavement; there were wicker
lounging-chairs, with bright cushions, and a little table, holding books
and things.

The Duchessa rose from one of the lounging-chairs, and came forward,
smiling, to meet him.

She gave him her hand--for the first time.

It was warm--electrically warm; and it was soft--womanly soft; and it
was firm, alive--it spoke of a vitality, a temperament. Peter was sure,
besides, that it would be sweet to smell; and he longed to bend over it,
and press it with his lips. He might almost have done so, according to
Italian etiquette. But, of course, he simply bowed over it, and let it
go.

"Mi trova abbandonata," she said, leading the way back to the
terrace-end. There were notes of a peculiar richness in her voice, when
she spoke Italian; and she dwelt languorously on the vowels, and rather
slurred the consonants, lazily, in the manner Italian women have,
whereby they give the quality of velvet to their tongue. She was not an
Italian woman; Heaven be praised, she was English: so this was just pure
gain to the sum-total of her graces. "My uncle and my niece have gone to
the village. But I 'm expecting them to come home at any moment now--and
you'll not have long, I hope, to wait for your snuff."

She flashed a whimsical little smile into his eyes. Then she returned
to her wicker chair, glancing an invitation at Peter to place himself
in the one facing her. She leaned back, resting her head on a pink silk
cushion.

Peter, no doubt, sent up a silent prayer that her uncle and her niece
might be detained at the village for the rest of the afternoon. By her
niece he took her to mean Emilia: he liked her for the kindly euphemism.
"What hair