"It implies a grumble," said Peter, "like the 'thank you' of a

servant dissatisfied with his tip. It's the very least he can

do. It's perfunctory--I 'm not sure it is n't even ironical."

"Perfunctory! Ironical!" cried the Duchessa. "Look at him!

He's warbling his delicious little soul out."

They both paused to look and listen.

The bird's gold-red bosom palpitated. He marked his

modulations by sudden emphatic movements of the head. His eyes

were fixed intently before him, as if he could actually see and

follow the shining thread of his song, as it wound away through

the air. His performance had all the effect of a spontaneous

rhapsody. When it was terminated, he looked down at his

auditors, eager, inquisitive, as who should say, "I hope you

liked it?"--and then, with a nod clearly meant as a farewell,

flew out of sight.

The Duchessa smiled again at Peter, with intention.

"You must really try to take a cheerier view of things," she

said.

And next instant she too was off, walking slowly, lightly, up

the green lawns, between the trees, towards the castle, her

gown fluttering in the breeze, now dazzling white as she came

into the sun, now pearly grey as she passed into the shade.

"What a woman it is," said Peter to himself, looking after her.

"What vigour, what verve, what sex! What a woman!"

And, indeed, there was nothing of the too-prevalent epicene in

the Duchessa's aspect; she was very certainly a woman.

"Heavens, how she walks!" he cried in a deep whisper.

But then a sudden wave of dejection swept over him. At first

he could not account for it. By and by, however, a malicious

little voice began to repeat and repeat within him, "Oh, the

futile impression you must have made upon her! Oh, the

ineptitudes you

uttered! Oh, the precious opportunity you have misemployed!"

"You are a witch," he said to Marietta. "You've proved it to

the hilt. I 've seen the person, and the object is more

desperately lost than ever."




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