"Do you know the Duchessa?" asked Flora Desimone.

"Yes." It was three o'clock the same afternoon. The duke sat with his wife

under the vine-clad trattoria on the quay. Between his knees he held his

Panama hat, which was filled with ripe hazelnuts. He cracked them

vigorously with his strong white teeth and filliped the broken shells into

the lake, where a frantic little fish called agoni darted in and about

the slowly sinking particles. "Why?" The duke was not any grayer than he

had been four or five months previous, but the characteristic expression

of his features had undergone a change. He looked less Jovian than

Job-like.

"I want you to get an invitation to her ball at the Villa Rosa to-night."

"We haven't been here twenty-four hours!" in mild protest.

"What has that to do with it? It doesn't make any difference."

"I suppose not." He cracked and ate a nut. "Where is he?"

"He has gone to Milan. He left hurriedly. He's a fool," impatiently.

"Not necessarily. Foolishness is one thing and discretion is another. Oh,

well; his presence here was not absolutely essential. Presently he will

marry and settle down and be a good boy." The next nut was withered, and

he tossed it aside. "Is her voice really gone?"

"No." Flora leaned with her arms upon the railing and glared at the

wimpling water. She had carried the Apple of Discord up the hill and down

again. Nora had been indisposed.

"I am glad of that."

She turned the glare upon him.

"I am very glad of that, considering your part in the affair."

"Michael...!"

"Be careful. Michael is always a prelude to a temper. Have one of these,"

offering a nut.

She struck it rudely from his hand.

"Sometimes I am tempted to put my two hands around that exquisite neck of

yours."

"Try it."

"No, I do not believe it would be wise. But if ever I find out that you

have lied to me, that you loved the fellow and married me out of

spite...." He completed the sentence by suggestively crunching a nut.

The sullen expression on her face gave place to a smile. "I should like to

see you in a rage."

"No, my heart; you would like nothing of the sort. I understand you better

than you know; that accounts for my patience. You are Italian. You are

caprice and mood. I come from a cold land. If ever I do get angry, run,

run as fast as ever you can."




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