Then Marietta brought the tea, with bread-and-butter, and
toast, and cakes, and pretty blue china cups and saucers, and
silver that glittered in the firelight.
"Will you do me the honour of pouring the tea?" Peter asked the
Duchessa.
So she poured the tea, and Peter passed it. As he stood close
to her, to take it--oh, but his heart beat, believe me! And
once, when she was giving him a cup, the warm tips of her
fingers lightly touched his hand. Believe me, the touch had
its effect. And always there was that heady fragrance in the
air, like a mysterious little voice, singing secrets.
"I wonder," the old priest said, "why tea is not more generally
drunk by us Italians. I never taste it without resolving to
acquire the habit. I remember, when I was a child, our mothers
used to keep it as a medicine; and you could only buy it at the
chemists' shops."
"It's coming in, you know, at Rome--among the Whites," said the
Duchessa.
"Among the Whites!" cried he, with a jocular simulation of
disquiet. "You should not have told me that, till I had
finished my cup. Now I shall feel that I am sharing a
dissipation with our spoliators."
"That should give an edge to its aroma," laughed she. "And
besides, the Whites aren't all responsible for our spoliation
--some of them are not so white as your fancy paints them.
They'd be very decent people, for the most part--if they were
n't so vulgar."
"If you stick up for the Whites like that when I am Pope, I
shall excommunicate you," the priest threatened. "Meanwhile,
what have you to say against the Blacks?"
"The Blacks, with few exceptions, are even blacker than they're
painted; but they too would be fairly decent people in their
way--if they were n't so respectable. That is what makes Rome
impossible as a residence for any one who cares for human
society. White society is so vulgar--Black society is so
deadly dull."
"It is rather curious," said the priest, "that the chief of
each party should wear the colour of his adversary. Our chief
dresses in white, and their chief can be seen any day driving
about the streets in black."
And Peter, during this interchange of small-talk, was at
liberty to feast his eyes upon her.
"Perhaps you have not yet reached the time of life where men
begin to find a virtue in snuff?" the priest said, producing a
smart silver snuff box, tapping the lid, and proffering it to
Peter.