he hands of the Jews, as everything more or less does
sooner or later; and they--if you can believe me--they were going
to turn the castle into an hotel, into one of those monstrous modern
hotels, for other Jews to come to, when I happened to hear of it, and
bought it. Fancy turning that splendid old castle into a Jew-infested
hotel! It is one of the few castles in Italy that have a ghost. Oh, but
a quite authentic ghost. It is called the White Page--il Paggio Bianco
di Ventirose. It is the ghost of a boy about sixteen. He walks on the
ramparts of the old keep, and looks off towards the lake, as if he
were watching a boat, and sometimes he waves his arms, as if he were
signalling. And from head to foot he is perfectly white, like a statue.
I have never seen him myself; but so many people say they have, I cannot
doubt he is authentic. And the Jews wanted to turn this haunted castle
into an hotel... As a tribute to the memory of the Farfalla, I take
pains to see that their arms, which are carved, as you see them here, in
at least a hundred different places, are remetalled and retinctured as
often as time and the weather render it necessary."

She looked towards the castle, while she spoke; and now she rose, with
the design, perhaps, of moving in that direction.

Peter felt that the moment had come for actualities.

"It seems improbable," he began,--"and I 'm afraid you will think there
is a tiresome monotony in my purposes; but I am here again to return
Cardinal Udeschini's snuff box. He left it in my garden."

"Oh--?" said the Duchessa. "Yes, he thought he must have left it there.
He is always mislaying it. Happily, he has another, for emergencies. It
was very good of you to trouble to bring it back."

She gave a light little laugh..

"I may also improve this occasion," Peter abruptly continued, "to make
my adieux. I shall be leaving for England in a few days now."

The Duchessa raised her eyebrows.

"Really?" she said. "Oh, that is too bad," she added, by way of comment.
"October, you know, is regarded as the best month of all the twelve, in
this lake country."

"Yes, I know it," Peter responded regretfully.

"And it is a horrid month in England," she went on.

"It is an abominable month in England," he acknowledged.

"Here it is blue, like larkspur, and all fragrant of the vintage,
and joyous with the songs of the vintagers," she said. "There it is
dingy-brown, and songless, and it smells of smoke."

"Ye