The Cardinal's Snuff-Box. Harland Henry

      On Monday he went to the pink-stuccoed village post-office.

      Before the post-office door a smart little victoria, with a pair of sprightly, fine-limbed French bays, was drawn up, ducal coronets emblazoned on its panels.

      Peter's heart began to beat.

      And while he was hesitating on the doorstep, the door opened, and the Duchessa came forth—tall, sumptuous, in white, with a wonderful black-plumed hat, and a wonderful white-frilled sunshade. She was followed by a young girl—a pretty, dark-complexioned girl, of fourteen, fifteen perhaps, with pleasant brown eyes (that lucent Italian brown), and in her cheeks a pleasant hint of red (that covert Italian red, which seems to glow through the thinnest film of satin).

      Peter bowed, standing aside to let them pass.

      But when he looked up, the Duchessa had stopped, and was smiling on him.

      His heart beat harder.

      “A lovely day,” said the Duchessa.

      “Delightful,” agreed Peter, between two heart-beats.—Yet he looked, in his grey flannels, with his straw-hat and his eyeglass, with his lean face, his even colour, his slightly supercilious moustaches—he looked a very embodiment of cool-blooded English equanimity.

      “A trifle warm, perhaps?” the Duchessa suggested, with her air of polite (or was it in some part humorous?) readiness to defer to his opinion.

      “But surely,” suggested he, “in Italy, in summer, it is its bounden duty to be a trifle warm?”

      The Duchessa smiled.

      “You like it? So do I. But what the country really needs is rain.”

      “Then let us hope,” said he, “that the country's real needs may remain unsatisfied.”

      The Duchessa tittered.

      “Think of the poor farmers,” she said reproachfully.

      “It's vain to think of them,” he answered. “'T is an ascertained fact that no condition of the weather ever contents the farmers.”

      The Duchessa laughed.

      “Ah, well,” she consented, “then I 'll join in your hope that the fine weather may last. I—I trust,” she was so good as to add, “that you're not entirely uncomfortable at Villa Floriano?”

      “I dare n't allow myself to speak of Villa Floriano,” he replied. “I should become dithyrambic. It's too adorable.”

      “It has a pretty garden, and—I remember—you admired the view,” the Duchessa said. “And that old Marietta? I trust she does for you fairly well?” Her raised eyebrows expressed benevolent (or was it in some part humorous?) concern.

      “She does for me to perfection. That old Marietta is a priceless old jewel,” Peter vowed.

      “A good cook?” questioned the Duchessa.

      “A good cook—but also a counsellor and friend. And with a flow of language!”

      The Duchessa laughed again.

      “Oh, these Lombard peasant women. They are untiring chatterers.”

      “I 'm not sure,” Peter felt himself in justice bound to confess, “that Marietta is n't equally untiring as a listener. In fact, there's only one respect in which she has disappointed me.”

      “Oh—?” said the Duchessa. And her raised eyebrows demanded particulars.

      “She swears she does n't wear a dagger in her garter—has never heard of such a practice,” Peter explained. “And now,” he whispered to his soul, “we 'll see whether our landlady is up in modern literature.”

      Still again the Duchessa laughed. And, apparently, she was up in modern literature. At any rate—

      “Those are Lombard country-girls along the coast,” she reminded him. “We are peaceful inland folk, miles from the sea. But you had best be on your guard, none the less.” She shook her head, in warning. “Through all this country-side that old Marietta is reputed to be a witch.”

      “If she's a witch,” said Peter, undismayed, “her usefulness will be doubled. I shall put her to the test directly I get home.”

      “Sprinkle her with holy water?” laughed the Duchessa. “Have a care. If she should turn into a black cat, and fly away on a broomstick, you'd never forgive yourself.”

      Wherewith she swept on to her carriage, followed by her young companion.

      The sprightly French bays tossed their heads, making the harness tinkle. The footman mounted the box. The carriage rolled away.

      But Peter remained for quite a minute motionless on the door-step, gazing, bemused, down the long, straight, improbable village street, with its poplars, its bridge, its ancient stone cross, its irregular pink and yellow houses—as improbable as a street in opera-bouffe. A thin cloud of dust floated after the carriage, a thin screen of white dust, which, in the sun, looked like a fume of silver.

      “I think I could put my finger on a witch worth two of Marietta,” he said, in the end. “And thus we see,” he added, struck by something perhaps not altogether novel in his own reflection, “how the primary emotions, being perennial, tend to express themselves in perennial formulae.”

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      Back at the villa, he enquired of Marietta who the pretty brown-eyed young girl might have been.

      “The Signorina Emilia,” Marietta promptly informed him.

      “Really and truly?” questioned he.

      “Ang,” affirmed Marietta, with the national jerk of the head; “the Signorina Emilia Manfredi—the daughter of the Duca.”

      “Oh—? Then the Duca was married before?” concluded Peter, with simplicity.

      “Che-e-e!” scoffed Marietta, on her highest note. “Married? He?” Then she winked and nodded—as one man of the world to another. “Ma molto porn! La mamma fu robaccia di Milano. But after his death, the Duchessa had her brought to the castle. She is the same as adopted.”

      “That looks as if your Duchessa's heart were in the right place, after all,” commented Peter.

      “Gia,” agreed Marietta.

      “Hang the right place!” cried he. “What's the good of telling me her heart is in the right place, if the right place is inaccessible?”

      But Marietta only looked bewildered.

      He lived in his garden, he haunted the riverside, he made a daily pilgrimage to the village post, he thoroughly neglected the work he had come to this quiet spot to do. But a week passed, during which he never once beheld so much as the shadow of the Duchessa.

      On Sunday he trudged his mile, through the sun, and up the hill, not only to both Masses, but to Vespers and Benediction.

      She was present at none of these offices.

      “The Pagan!” he exclaimed.

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      Up at the castle, on the broad marble terrace, where clematis and jessamine climbed over the balustrade and twined about its pilasters, where oleanders grew in tall marble urns and shed their roseate petals on the pavement, Beatrice, dressed