il,
through which its sapphire-blue shone furtively. Far away, in the summer
haze, Monte Sfiorito seemed a mere dim spectre of itself--a stranger
might easily have mistaken it for a vague mass of cloud floating above
the horizon.

"Are you aware that it 's a singularly lovely afternoon?" the Duchessa
asked, by and by.

"I have a hundred reasons for thinking it so," Peter hazarded, with the
least perceptible approach to a meaning bow.

In the Duchessa's face, perhaps, there flickered, for half-a-second, the
least perceptible light, as of a comprehending and unresentful smile.
But she went on, with fine aloofness.

"I rather envy you your river, you know. We are too far from it at
the castle. Is n't the sound, the murmur, of it delicious? And its
colour--how does it come by such a subtle colour? Is it green? Is it
blue? And the diamonds on its surface--see how they glitter. You know,
of course," she questioned, "who the owner is of those unequalled gems?"

"Surely," Peter answered, "the lady paramount of this demesne?"

"No, no." She shook her head, smiling. "Undine. They are Undine's--her
necklaces and tiaras. No mortal woman's jewel-case contains anything
half so brilliant. But look at them--look at the long chains of
them--how they float for a minute--and are then drawn down. They are
Undine's--Undine and her companions are sporting with them just below
the surface. A moment ago I caught a glimpse of a white arm."

"Ah," said Peter, nodding thoughtfully, "that's what it is to have 'the
seeing eye.' But I'm grieved to hear of Undine in such a wanton mood. I
had hoped she would still be weeping her unhappy love-affair."

"What! with that horrid, stolid German--Hildebrandt, was his name?"
cried the Duchessa. "Not she! Long ago, I'm glad to say, she learned to
laugh at that, as a mere caprice of her immaturity. However, this is a
digression. I want to return to our 'Man of Words.' Tell me--what is the
quality you especially like in it?"

"I like its every quality," Peter affirmed, unblushing. "Its style,
its finish, its concentration; its wit, humour, sentiment; its texture,
tone, atmosphere; its scenes, its subject; the paper it's printed
on, the type, the binding. But above all, I like its heroine. I think
Pauline de Fleuvieres the pearl of human women--the cleverest, the
loveliest, the most desirable, the most exasperating. And also the most
feminine. I can't think of her at all as a mere fiction, a mere shado