The Cardinal's Snuff Box

So he turned his back upon Villa F'loriano, and. set off,

high-hearted, up the wide lawns, under the bending trees

--whither, on four red-marked occasions, he had watched her

disappear--towards the castle, which faced him in its vast

irregular picturesqueness. There were the oldest portions,

grimly mediaeval, a lakeside fortress, with ponderous round

towers, meurtrieres, machiolations, its grey stone walls

discoloured in fantastic streaks and patches by weather-stains

and lichens, or else shaggily overgrown by creepers. Then

there were later portions, rectangular, pink-stuccoed, with

rusticated work at the corners, and, on the blank spaces

between the windows, quaint allegorical frescoes, faded, half

washed-out. And then there were entirely modern-looking

portions, of gleaming marble, with numberless fanciful

carvings, spires, pinnacles, reliefs--wonderfully light, gay,

habitable, and (Peter thought) beautiful, in the clear Italian

atmosphere, against the blue Italian sky.

"It's a perfect house for her," he said. "It suits her--like

an appropriate garment; it almost seems to express her."

And all the while, as he proceeded, her voice kept sounding in

his ears; scraps of her conversation, phrases that she had

spoken, kept coming back to him.

One end of the long, wide marble terrace had been arranged as a

sort of out-of-door living-room. A white awning was stretched

overhead; warm-hued rugs were laid on the pavement; there were

wicker lounging-chairs, with bright cushions, and a little

table, holding books and things.

The Duchessa rose from one of the lounging-chairs, and came

forward, smiling, to meet him.

She gave him her hand--for the first time.

It was warm--electrically warm; and it was soft--womanly soft;

and it was firm, alive--it spoke of a vitality, a temperament.

Peter was sure, besides, that it would be sweet to smell; and

he longed to bend over it, and press it with his lips. He

might almost have done so, according to Italian etiquette.

But, of course, he simply bowed over it, and let it go.

"Mi trova abbandonata," she said, leading the way back to the

terrace-end. There were notes of a peculiar richness in her

voice, when she spoke Italian; and she dwelt languorously on

the vowels, and rather slurred the consonants, lazily, in the

manner Italian women have, whereby they give the quality of

velvet to their tongue. She was not an Italian woman; Heaven

be praised, she was English: so this was just pure gain to the

sum-total of her graces. "My uncle and my niece have gone to

the village. But I 'm expecting them to come home at any

moment now--and you'll not have long, I hope, to wait for your

snuff."