The Cardinal's Snuff Box

Then, with another gracious inclination of the head, and an

interrogative brightening of the eyes, "Mr. Marchdale no

doubt?" she hazarded.

Peter bowed.

"I am very glad if, on the whole, you like our little effect,"

she went on, glancing in the direction of Monte Sfiorito. "I"

--there was the briefest suspension--"I am your landlady."

For a third time Peter bowed, a rather more elaborate bow than

his earlier ones, a bow of respectful enlightenment, of feudal

homage.

"You arrived this afternoon?" she conjectured.

"By the five-twenty-five from Bergamo," said he.

"A very convenient train," she remarked; and then, in the

pleasantest manner, whereby the unusual mode of valediction was

carried off, "Good evening."

"Good evening," responded Peter, and accomplished his fourth

bow.

She moved away from the river, up the smooth lawns, between the

trees, towards Castel Ventirose, a flitting whiteness amid the

surrounding green.

Peter stood still, looking after her.

But when she was out of sight, he sank back upon his rustic

bench, like a man exhausted, and breathed a prodigious sigh.

He was absurdly pale. All the same, clenching his fists, and

softly pounding the table with them, he muttered exultantly,

between his teeth, "What luck! What incredible luck! It's

she--it's she, as I 'm a heathen. Oh, what supernatural luck!"